On The Seventh Day

24 Jan

Mid to late morning, I put away my comforts,
To take on the labors of the heart and mind
I wasn’t looking for an answer or asking any questions,
But I didn’t see what caught me coming up behind

Dead thought, stagnation, bringing no creation
And leaving me to struggle for my rhymes
It happens every so often, my genius in a coffin
A terrible trick to play on me in writing times

Feeling bad about a lad whose father died at ten
A lonely boy with no one there to catch the ball he throws
Empathy for an aging lady who lost her only daughter Sadie
An empty life with no one there to hold her when she goes

Understanding a drunkards plight on cold and windy streets at night
Remembering his family and all the friends he had
Feeling myself in the shoes of all of those who’ve got the blues
Makes it hard to write my songs; one color turns to plaid

I sympathize, I understand, I surrender, I demand
Compassion, caring, forgive and then try to forget
Tenderness and mercy, kindness come and leave me far behind,
This wall of pain and struggle hasn’t helped me yet,

My mirror’s reflection copies my direction
And so of course, it copies my remorse
If I alter the direction I alter the reflection
And action alleviates remorse
The Sunday song will flow again with force

© 1988-2010 brent david fraser, all rights reserved

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