A blues about the price of love (however defined or denied).
|The wages of dying is love
I will pay the penny and dance the jig,
pay said penny and prance a jig.
I will paste my smile like a frown on a pig.
I will cane two twigs to make a chair
two old twigs, a rickety chair,
to bring together two lives to share.
What's fit for the fires of Hell they'll say,
not fit for fires of Hell I'll pray,
ashes fallen to dust by May.
Caught in a photo, once lost, once found.
Caught in pictures now lost, now found.
How can I let go as memories mound?
Thoughts of you flee, to be caught by dreams
Thoughts caught by the weave of the dreamcatcher's dreams,
There they lie, trapped, forgotten it seems.
I will cherish the thoughts of letting you go,
perish the thought of letting you go.
But dreams must wake, I know. I know.
I will die knowing it's the price of love,
die smiling at said price of love.
The wages of dying is love, my love.
catalogue number: [162.705]
Note: Started as a very different sketch, but I was feeling a bit bluesy when I revised and posted it here.