Open your eyes for a dose of oxygen,
Smell a world with tears and spice,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

You sleep with your fast growing collagen,
Recovering the jet-lag of the unknown I surmise,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Yet to come the tag that latches on to your origin,
when living each day has its invaluable price,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Will you belong to the cigarettes and scent of gin,
Or shall I see you chase dreams left to their own device,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

There might be peace or violence had here you been,
You could be a well-built fortune or a random dice,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

And I am witnessing this, without sorrow or grin,
Wonder, distress and an expired love that will suffice.
Open your eyes for a dose of oxygen,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

In nighttime living creatures fell dead asleep by herds |
I alone am an orphan to the darkness and the candlelight |
And my dreams depart for whimsical lands with the migratory birds |

Under the roofs people sleep with their eyes shut tight |
All the dramas of daily life locked down their windows |
I alone am an orphan to the darkness and the candlelight |

Here my imagination took its feathery flight |
Between these shadows of empty cul-de-sac |
All the dramas of daily life locked down their windows |

The moon steals out the stories in inspiration’s sack |
Here with my dreams, desires, and depressions out of sight |
Between these shadows of empty cul-de-sac |

Improvisation opened his iridescent lips for a bite |
My melatonin ignites the fire within the constellations |
Here with my dreams, desires, and depressions out of sight |

Legends, myths, and superstitions find me with consternations |
In nighttime living creatures fell dead asleep by herds |
My melatonin ignites the fire within the constellations |
And my dreams depart for whimsical lands with the migratory birds|

This melody keep stuck in my mind,
Weaving its way into my memories.
Each note shine for someone else,
When I look back years from now.
The words all break free of their meanings,
Only the music live on with incoherent alcohol.
My life is made of songs,
As I tread
                 My
                       Way
                              Onto
                                     The
                                           Stage
                                                     Of
                                                          Cacoph­ony.

There is a wishing well where I live,
filled with coins down the bottom,
some are shiny, some old, some rusting into the water.
Circles of copper, silver, aluminum and gold.
Here I will take a bet,
throw my first quarter into the pond,
There it falls with a bubbly thud.
Day by day I will sit by it, murmur a silent prayer,
Doing nothing as the sun set.
So when the dawn comes,
I will get exactly the opposite
of what I wished for,
My coin lost among the thousands,
In this miraculous wishing well.