Bay Of Dismay
Always was always so certain in it's way.
Never could you change it's mind or
How it would have it's say.
Her eyes are made up of sunsets.
But she holds the moon at bay.
Her eyes are watered
But the sea is receding now today
Her eyes are shadows, shadows
She questions everything I say.
The gemini was born three days past the bull.
In a land full of richness and
Illusions are cut and pressed down at the mill.
Her hands are empty and the wind begins to blow.
Her hands are fingered but I see no rings aglow.
Her hands are waving but I am so far and so...
Her hands have faltered over a heart so full of grief.
Her hands are longing for touching and some pure belief.
Her hands are lingering, lingering...
The ships they come into the safety of the harbor.
Then dock and they rope onto the wharf.
The gangplank unloads it's cargo of remorse.
But this widow stands not among the chorus.
She twists and turns in a blacklaced chiffon party dress.
And the bayed back moon is peeping through the clouds
Humming a song of freedom before
The clouds get it going and move it on along.
Oh.....oh her eyes are sunsets, sunsets!
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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