Whispering whims of the world’s smallest hands turned up...
Yet all of time could not fill their supple cup up.
You have always had a room for me in your head
(even without colorful dec’rations hung up)
But I’m a condemned building with too many errors --
With shoddy frames n’ off-kilter stairs not leading up
Did you call my name as I was running down th’ hall --
Was it running for dead? O’ did I hold my head up?
Yes, I have my quirks in far too many manners
Forgotten on th’ tombstone of your mother, now up
But now the greater the love in waves of the heart
The more I get lost in these rooms, for aye locked up.
I wish I could have a prison for love outdoors
By an architect who sings out of a tune up
And looking to the future can nought be brazen
Call me Quasi-model, but at least sum it up.
Michael T. Smith