Leftovers (#15 From My Musical, Lyrics...) Poem by Peter S. Quinn

I came from a dream world
Stirring the clock
And flickering the time,
The lights were on
And growing shadows
Still running on.

The night street,
Nothing stood between me
And imagination.

The ghosts of the past
All going with the winter,
Like leftovers
Of all our differences.

Who was the judge
In this situation?
Where words,
Are the last resources
Of passing on feelings;
A traveler to see
With conception of senses,
Our heart stood never
Closer together.


(The songs are available at my site at SibeliusMusic)