Edit 3: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as pools of light elude rawboned men.
Will lettered years have taught me how
to siphon water from light?
Reflections ripple; wishes conjure
your face, glowing by a stranger's, who
wears my bleach-stained sweater. I wander
in stretching steepled shadows, cast by
unsung ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am older than my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter learned practicality
when there is no grey of truth
daubed on his palette.
[pre verse]
Edit 2: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
our tears and dress our scrapes.
It's time the painter has learned
practicality when there's no grey
of truth daubed on his palette.
Edit 1: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends, deceiving promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as elusive light pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I recall
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you had found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I am almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
Original: Romanticism, Abandoned
Time bends and deceives promises
made when we were headlong and young,
as light's elusive pools to lost and thin men.
What major will teach me how to siphon
water from light?
Within its rippling reflections, I conjure
your face, glowing alongside another's;
you have found someone else. I wander
in the timeless shadow of the Notre-Dame, cast
by nameless ghosts, a wayfarer far from home.
Now I'm almost as old as my parents
when they surrendered moonlit flings
to the garret's cobwebs and dust, to wipe
tears that streamed over scraped knees.
It is time the painter has learned
practicality when he does not have
the grey of truth to dip his brush in.
