Jester
When I stand up to twilight
When the last of the light surrenders to darkness
I feel I should of lived in another life

Like a futile old man, who can't turn back the clock
I am hopelessly worn out from love

Oh, should have I given myself to what's above?
A blood red moon likes to taunt this dying man
Star's like white, guiding lights burn out in the night

All my life I could hardly see
My eyes are fine
But, all my life I could hardly see

My heart is wounded,
From the things I've done
From the life I should of lived

Turn back the clock, old man!
I hear the laughter in the joking wind

Oh, blood red moon, I've been a dying man
White light guiding me to its laughter

When the twilight surrenders to darkness
I hide from the sky above

But in my dreams, I see a jester's grin
In return, I laugh too, that's how I sleep at night

Fighter Once?
I walked down the marble stairwell of an old building and saw an old man mop a lonely hallway with twisted misshaped hands. It was late at night and it was just me and him. I was in my summer business suit and he was a night cleaner in dirty overalls. He worked his sinewy arms in a grimaced rhythm.

"I had my knuckles busted in both hands," he said to me as he held still his mop. I stopped and listened.

"My nose has been broke. My eye socket, too. I had a cracked cheek bone twice, and I dislocated my shoulder. I had ointment burn my eyes, and razor blades hid in gloves cut my skin so bad I thought I'd bleed to death."

"You were a fighter once?" I asked.

"Yeah, mostly just a nobody. I fought that time in Mexico where I got cut with the razor blades. Now I get the headaches bad. Sometimes, everything seems in slow motion, and I see sparks in my brain. I should a been a better fighter. I should a been a better fighter. You don't make no living washing floors."

I looked at him for a second, and said Good Night. That's it, Good Night.

When I got home, I noticed some dirty water from the mop stained the cuff of my pants. But I didn't care so much. I made a good salary, I could buy a new suit.

Lucky me. I didn't see everything in slow motion. I didn't see no sparks and my face had never been cut. But there have been days lately where life feels like a grimaced rhythm. Like somehow I busted up my knuckles, and hurt myself bad.

Good Night, I said to myself. Good Night is all I could say.

Glory
Soldiers walk as shallow graves
In a civilian dream I cannot be seen
But I see them as I move opposite their army tide
They retreat past me--
along me,
through me
Unaware of where I am
Their bandages-- shredded and bloodied--flail like tattered flags
The burst of cannons--the billows of smoke
I see death's wait in sunken eyes
Broken arms, broken knees--one wounded man holding up another
In deformed march they walk the bridge
The swelling river of blood beneath their dying feet
I float above
My dream wings lift me\\\
Across the bridge I see---the wounded march of men is eternal
The shallow graves of their youths,
pierced by arrows,
severed;
torn by mortar and guns
The glory is that crossing to salvation
Where once again they are young and not aged by war
Where life revives them
Where they rise up, the bloody bridge behind
I awake and gasp
War and the other side, all in a dream. All in a dream.
I hear the news, a bridge of fallen soldiers.
I awake and gasp once more...the glory and salvation, the glory and salvation!