the thin white troubadour rests in the alley
while the Colonel is dead asleep on the couch
the angels have red hair and hover about the city
i, for the silver princess, write a lullaby..
visited by spirits, they speak to me
claiming i am nothing but a descendant of Dylan
"no!" i replied "my rhymes, while quite naive,
maintain a strong foundation"
displeased, the spirits stabbed the cold flesh of my pale arm
with my own pen, then vanished into obscurity
standing still-life, the false pretense of a dream
the blood drips and writes your name in the snow
in the contrast of red on white, i finally understood
what it meant to have a motif and a muse...
silver princess, child of passion
beauty natural and recurring
but fading you are, to black
the Duke wants to blind me and steal my ink
he disapproves my affection
and locks me out of the warehouse
he attacked my adolescence with no regrets
a tarnished image, a grievous angel,
and my silver princess
not yet Mona Lisa, but a chambermaid not
simultaneously searching and aching
but blessed with diamonds for eyes, positively
a view through your fog
and the streaks on the glass
but idle stands your idol
accepting mere infatuation for gold
his tracks are hidden
but, silver princess, guided by a widened sense of longing and haste
passes across my floor
it is after midnight, and she should be sleeping
in the refuge of my poetry
not the escaping image of Lennon |
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