Why burn poor and lonely. Under a bowl or under a lampshade. Or on the shelf beside the bed. Where at night you lay turning like a door on it's hinges.
I was looking at the leaves. Climbing to the tops of the trees. But you were nowhere to be found. Just beneath all the green. You were buried like a little seed.
God is love and love is real. But the dead are dancing with the dead. And though all that's charming disappears. All of things lovely only hurt my head.
The cure for pain is in the pain. So it's there that you'll find me. Until again I forget. And again he reminds me. "Hear my voice in your head. And think of me kindly".