I have the light all to myself here.
There are no shadows closing in.
Every candle here is blazing,
as if the night has never been.
As if the morning is forever,
and the afternoon a lie.
As if the twilight isn’t coming—
as if we will never die.
And splendid in her gypsy clothes,
Sunset opens like a rose.
And everything you think she knows,
like the light it comes and goes.
There is a volume on the mantle,
beneath the dust of many years.
Inside are pages never written,
and pages washed away by tears.
A catalogue of wasted moments;
a ledger of defeated souls.
Letters drawn in blood and tarnish,
drawn on paper made of holes.
And splendid in her gypsy clothes,
Sunset opens like a rose.
And everything you think she knows—
a door that opens, so shall close.
And the mask she wears is pure,
and the words she speaks are sure:
“Gifts you bring are hollow things.
The gifts you bring are hollow things.”
And splendid in her gypsy clothes,
Sunset opens like a rose.
And everything you think she knows
is in the face she never shows.
It’s in the face she never shows.
It’s in the face she never shows—
and like the light it comes and goes—
a door that opens, so shall close.
