mourning at seven

this morning at seven the monday begins

the winter is holding its own

covering history all of it's sins

forgiving again what he's done

the wind blows out of the heavens

the earth moves under his feet

the old man writes with his ball point pen

refusing to know he's complete

his musical notes make him wonder

if his life had it's gloryfull season

now the cold hangs it's distant thunder

he's losing his mind and his reason

he plays on into the evening

he plays on into the night

he plays on with his soul and his meaning

he plays on to extinguish his fright

so the winter will go away again

and the spring will eternally rise

his music will last till the very last frame

making song in the old mans eyes

his children hold on to his legacy

his love has left him alone

his mind drifts out to the open "E"

and he 's chilled to his longing bones

the winter is filled with memory

it clings like a frost to his heart

if only he could get back his reverie

if only he get one more start

the spring will come again my friend

your life will be renewed

with this poem a prayer I send

that the spring in your heart will move