You were the made of paper boy
always in the rain
and with brilliant running ink
your shoes were always stained.
You played the cuckoo bird.
You thought to hide the pain,
but we all hung on every word.
In a way, you kept us sane.
Whatever’s clever man.
You left me far behind.
Like the tortoise and the hair,
I’ve been taking my time.
But now you’re already there
across the finish line.
Probably singing one to Jesus,
trying to score some wine.
-CHORUS
Now no one will know
inside you had a star
and I hope I go (come out,
come out) wherever you are.
The experience of innocence.
The screaming blades of grass.
The temptation of madness.
In your songs, you’d always ask,
“Is this my only choice?”
in that sky, crashing voice
as your fingers let on
there was more to the song.
You said we wouldn’t understand
even when we did.
Even if we were a little wiser
and you were just a little kid.
Still, you were right
when you said the things you said.
The best is unknowable.
The mystery is dead.
–
I remember looking for you
in Eureka, California
wondering if you’d hopped a bus
or were just curled up somewhere.
You lied, right where I found you.
You said hours didn’t pass by.
You said you didn’t disappear.
You said I didn’t need to cry.
Then you apologized
beneath the Portland dusk.
You pulled me aside
and asked me for my trust.
And I looked you in the eye,
and I looked at you with love.
That was the last time we spoke.
Man, things were looking up!
–