I sit here to compose
Chilly in the mountain sun
Latent voices warming with the day
Power tools are a Death Metal concert next door
The winds shuffle meekly through the eucalypts
Mountain of the musical instrument
But no 60′s feel good hit plays here
Just Scandinavian pop plastic fantastic
Literal thoughts become miscast words
Quiet is the thunderous inner storm
While leaves crash to the ground with loud report
And yet the ink is not dry upon the page
Before the next letter makes it’s weary way onto the paper
Ghosts are playing on always distant piano
So discordant are theme and purpose
So lost are the broken verses
That the fool writing them
Can’t pick the right time to end
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