Literature
Dream On
Every time that I look in the mirror
All these lines on my face getting clearer
The past is gone
It went by us like dust to dawn
Isn’t that the way
Everybody’s got their dues in life to pay
Fingers dancing on the keys, dark as midnight the bags under his eyes betray his lack of sleep. A story woven into the cold night air, the letters form words, strung one after the other in an incoherent fashion. He’s not sure why he writes. He’s not sure if he’s writing at all. He pauses. But not to think.
Looking at the calendar, March 19th. Halfway through the month, nearing Spring. He never knows when Spring is. Can never