I once dreamed I was a poet,
But I was bound to a single page.
You’re not just a pen and a piece of paper,
You’re a dog-eared book grown old with age.
I’ve got a friend with a golden table,
And he dines with the best of men.
He’d buy you that silver mirror,
If you could see that it’s only sand.
I believe that I’m a writer,
But I am bound to a single page.
Sipping coffee at the edge of nightfall,
Kissing you under summer rain.
But you feed the fire when you close the door…

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