stories

midnight brings that knocking, that same old rap a tap,
brings my sleep to make its wanderings, looking for some
dollar jug, maybe climb the stairs so i can watch the moon

have a talk long overdue, with the photos i've made hidden
telling stories full of lies, crooked in their words half memoried
black and white, faded colors, dates and names and places

written in a stranger's hand, i've never followed roads that
lead to such unlikely doors, never waited through the night
with an old man's careless tongue, and why has this bride

gone weeping? who's horn plays silent dirge? am i the
fellow on the left, head bowed at grave's dark door? was
i such a fine and dashing lad, bold grin and cruel of eye?

but i've lived a life of careful steps, finding shadows have
their joy, perhaps a jealous neighbor has placed them for
my fall, perhaps a brother long forgot, with envy and dark

deeds, has crept into my quiet rooms, left his anger, left
his needs, for i've lived my life with a solitary hand, never
gone astray, never clamored for the paths that lead so far

from home, why do these pictures tell their tale, steal
my perfect harmony, thief my quiet name? 3am's a liar's
game, with rules i cannot learn, and was i such a dashing

lad, somewhere in the world?