04-02-2013, 02:04 PM
I wasn't going to re-post my edit but you've all been very helpful and encouraging so I figure I will. Hopefully you enjoy this one a little more. I agree that the final stanza is a little naff but I personally like the sentiment too much to sacrifice it haha, but I did change it up a little. Macht Spass..
Porch Lights
What of the last friend
to say goodbye?
When the sun has not yet risen
and feels to have set in some other time
And what of the desolate train stations?
When railway platforms
are wearily populated by a sombre few
and early announcements painfully jest;
"Good morning."
When every can, sack and bottle
has been dripped dry
and the damage done
When the ash is on the table
because the tray went missing
who knows when
and the mess is the problem
of someone from tomorrow
What of the last cigarettes
being smoked through sorry lips?
When something like a cigarette
almost seems good for you
because eating one of the foods
could only serve
as a harsh reminder of reality,
when tuning in with the present’s
just another task
and reflection is a distant impossibility
And what of the front doors
clumsily opened and gently closed,
when the papers are being delivered
and the porch lights are turned off
and frail hands surround coffee cups
or cans of coca cola?
All it’s really worth for the victims of the night
Is that to feel quite so terrible;
One at least can’t have been toiling.
Porch Lights
What of the last friend
to say goodbye?
When the sun has not yet risen
and feels to have set in some other time
And what of the desolate train stations?
When railway platforms
are wearily populated by a sombre few
and early announcements painfully jest;
"Good morning."
When every can, sack and bottle
has been dripped dry
and the damage done
When the ash is on the table
because the tray went missing
who knows when
and the mess is the problem
of someone from tomorrow
What of the last cigarettes
being smoked through sorry lips?
When something like a cigarette
almost seems good for you
because eating one of the foods
could only serve
as a harsh reminder of reality,
when tuning in with the present’s
just another task
and reflection is a distant impossibility
And what of the front doors
clumsily opened and gently closed,
when the papers are being delivered
and the porch lights are turned off
and frail hands surround coffee cups
or cans of coca cola?
All it’s really worth for the victims of the night
Is that to feel quite so terrible;
One at least can’t have been toiling.