|
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 pattern 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. |
|
And the pattern still remains |
|
On the wall where darkness fell, |
|
And it's fitting that it should, |
|
For in darknesss I must dwell. |
|
Like the color of my skin, |
|
Or the day that I grow old, |
|
My life is made of Patterns |
|
That can scarcely be controlled. |
