<h1>A Folk Song</h1>
The world is a folk song and it used to write for you,
Its many melodies and the words they were sung true,
The simplest of pleasures and the heaviest of anchors.
The guitar it wept, and the drums they beat for your eyes,
I’ve always known it, you were my song’s reprise.
Oh girl won’t you miss me, wouldn’t you forget the sun,
There’s a river that flows, and another rock that sunk,
I'm the river bank that bids farewell, I am the river bottom-
Carry forgotten stones, Each has stories to tell.
There’s that sun again, there is my demon, I sink within myself...
Where is that song I need, where are your meters meet,
Where are you my dear, Blake had asked me not to leave.
Here I am still, living in your shadow, even as the strings break,
And the drums they go hollow, I pick up my pen,
I write my own. No misery, no wallow.
The ink is red, the paper is green, the eyes of the world they bleed,
They bleed red at the sight of all it sees. Men plant, men reap,
Men destroy. But all that love, oh the love is hid within hell’s convoy.
And so he said, not to touch the sky nor the water,
But we are born to search within our private hell’s quarter.