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Nothing to say, here ...

Seconds fall like teardrops
chasing the hours down

the endless highways of silence,
dying corridors of Autumn brown.

Flashbacks and memories,
highlighted when the gray shows,
weather beaten, scared and molded,
in a man's face is where the time goes.

The shadow is hunchbacked though
the man stands straight;
there is still time to make a stand --
hurry! -- the hour grows late!

The answer lies in dew drops
poised delicately on hope's rust...
where are those pearls to be scattered?
Too late, too late, they've turned to dust.

On the other side of pain rain is falling --
the hour of midnight is stalled --
comfort the soul with apple sellers,
do you hear the bitter cider of betrayal call?

The wine glass is cracked, Burgundy escaping
past the edges like promises from a false heart
to lie in empty pools of loneliness
reflected in amber eyes preparing to depart.

Listen well to the song you sing,
the delicate crescendo of its starts and stops,
as you walk your highways for months and days
and seconds that fall like teardrops.