The Lairs Of Lonely Souls (2018)

A cold Sunday morning
lost in the mist of solitude
can't see a face
of a kindred neighbor
in life's interlude.
No ships in the harbor
importing goods of hope
just a wintery wind of oblivion
shaking broken ropes.

In the lairs of lonely souls
all songs and stories are homespun
longing is inspiration
when the table is set for one.
In the lairs of lonely souls
a heart needs a patient plumber
a self needs a painter
and senses a touch of summer.

An old sad outsider
is hiding in a diner booth
writing notes, thinking "friends for life" was
just a slip of youth.
The meringue lost its sweetness
the facades are grim and gray
the call-center doorman never asks
"How's your health today?"

[Chorus]

A little cell in the beehive
on the floor number twenty-five
The broken heater keeps company
on the birthday of the pessimist
solo dancing on the to-do-list.

The vents howl the absence
the smell of fall in midi coats
a leaking tap drums the shabbiness
tints of time in fridge door quotes.
In the thoughts of the writer
the door is safety locked
the three-layer windows, padded walls
damp if chances knock.

[Chorus]