Little old Fiddlebrock Simpsonstien
Wondered the streets alone
He was a simple and quiet old man
His features like toppling stone
No one could understand him
When words did escape his lips
While some would laugh and tilt their heads
Others laid hands on hips
With head hung low like the setting sun
Fiddlebrock heads for home
An appliance box with newspaper floor
Keeps him warm from the fresh falling snow
Read forwards, then backwards…
Hated, not loved, am I
Sad, not happy, am I
Broken, not whole, am I
Lost, not found, am I
Ugly, not pretty, am I
Read forwards, then backwards…
Someday, when I get home
I’ll kiss your lips with unbridled passion
Someday, when I get home
I’ll hold you close and feel your warmth
Someday, when I get home
I’ll whisper, “I love you” into your ear
Someday, when I get home
We’ll take long walks and hold each other’s hands
Someday, when I get home
We’ll fall asleep while watching the stars
Someday, when I get home
You’ll wake to see my smile
Someday, when I get home
We’ll plan our life and our future
Someday, if I get home
I promise I’ll never leave you again
Someday…
“I am not now, nor shall I ever be,
Sated with this life of philosophy!”
Those were the last words I thought I would hear
Whispered from the lips of the one I held dear.
Then a palpable change settled in the room,
And I wondered aloud, “Could this be our doom?”
And a miracle happened, there before my eyes,
As the body before me started to rise.
Not from some ill-fated ghostly-formed force
No, this was the willingness of quite another source.
Stunned, though I be, as I stood there in wonder,
I couldn’t help but smile at the small clap of thunder.
You see, a storm had been raging outside,
As if in this room, where I gazed full of pride.
She then lay back down, content and enlightened.
With her last words she smiled – “I’ll be chasing the horizon!”
