I can smell your bread
cooling in the wind.
I hear your words and poetry.
You like to play pretend.
Wish I had a key,
but that might be too bold.
You really love your solitude
inside your goldfish bowl.
Dead men tell no tales,
or so I’ve been told.
Their words just reflect the light
off gems and foolish gold.
I should write a book,
and make it my life’s goal
to die and find my way to you
inside your goldfish bowl.
You’re not there
even though I know you are.
You come and go like chronic pain
but stay in my guitar.
I really want this part.
I’ve studied for the role.
Is there room for someone else
inside your goldfish bowl?
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