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…