That World is Gone

When the town was closed for winter
I’d wear my winter overcoat
and sit on beaches throwing stones
to see which ones would float.
All afternoon, as I sat in the beach
what I was trying to be was out of reach.

And in the days that followed
I’d walk the shoreline of the sea
and shudder in premonition of my death
but did not let it bother me.
That world is gone. It’s fallen through.
It’s time is over. When can we start anew?

For a while when you’re young, wo oh,
you can take it in your stride or on the chin
and you greet all of your woes, wo oh,
with mock tears and a tiny violin.
Yes, that’s all gone, and soon I will be too
but before I’m over, I’d like to start anew.

If I could roll again across the stones
onto a beach as the day comes to a close
and badly dance about a bonfire flames
and feel the sand beneath my toes!
But all the while I was thinking of the beach
what I was trying to be was out of reach.

So, even when we lived like dogs
it felt like we were free
running from pillow to lamppost
marking our little territory.
That world is gone. It’s fallen through.
It’s time is over. I’d like to start anew.