|
The night sets softly |
|
With the hush of falling leaves |
|
Casting shivering shadows |
|
On the houses through the trees |
|
And the light from a street lamp |
|
Paints a shadow on my wall |
|
Like the pieces of a puzzle |
|
Or a child's uneven scrawl |
|
Up a narrow flight of stairs |
|
In a narrow little room |
|
As I lie upon my bed |
|
In the early evening gloom |
|
Impaled on my wall |
|
My eyes can dimly see |
|
The pattern of my life |
|
And the puzzle that is me |
|
From the moment of my birth |
|
To the instant of my death |
|
There are patterns |
|
I must follow |
|
Just as I must breathe each breath |
|
Like a rat in a maze |
|
The path before me lies |
|
And the pattern never alters |
|
Until the rat dies |
|
The path before me lies |
|
And the pattern never alters |
|
And the pattern still remains |
|
On the wall where darkness fell |
|
And it's fitting that it should |
|
For in darkness |
|
I must dwell |
|
Like a rat in a maze |
|
Up a narrow flight of stairs |
|
In a narrow little room |
|
As I lie upon my bed |
|
In the early evening gloom |
|
Impaled on my wall |
|
My eyes can dimly see |
|
The pattern of my life |
|
And the puzzle that is me |
|
Like the color of my skin, |
|
And the day that |
|
I grow old |
|
My life is made of patterns |
|
That can scarcely be controlled |