Someday her prince, he might come
by Steven Clotzman

Morning comes. . . cold, with everything told,
strangled and soon passed away.
Bored, she might bet her last cigarette
that there's nothing new he could say
while turning those pages so carefully,
not wishing the last words to run.
But heartfelt and staid, they haunt him today
and someday her prince, he might come.

Something then led him that would not forget him
or leave him behind in the sand.
The moments he knew her were sweet, till they threw her
out beyond where he could stand.
And riding that highway out past the lights,
he questions the night on the run.
With hard earned confusion and bitter delusions,
and someday her prince, he might come.

Hearing her voice, ever stating,
he turns it off in the night.
Hoping and faithfully waiting,
while the moon and stars just hypnotize.

But forging and restless, that evening soon confessed
all that had passed with those days.
Nothing revives him, and nothing survives him,
and nothing can burn off that haze.
Lying there, half starved and naked,
with little left, alone and stunned.
But the force of the moon and the strength of her tune
tell her someday her prince, he might come.

Recalling all that was taken,
blindly he waits for the sun.
But soon it is clear he's mistaken,
though few would know which way to run.

So now he stands at the door needing no more
last words, or false vital signs.
Still, they arrive to shine in his eyes,
though he finds it now, not so unkind.
And turning away from the memory,
this time on his feet, as he shuns
the silence, the darkness, his trembling
from a battle no one has yet won.
And on the road it shall not hit him,
though shell-shocked, he knows that it's done:
the reckless despair and his misguided cares,
and someday her prince, he might come;
the weeping sad songs, and the innocence, gone,
and someday her prince, he might come.
He leaves it behind, displaced from his mind,
and someday her prince, he might come.


© 1988 & 2005 Steven Clotzman - all rights reserved