Patterns
Bent Sæther
those empty pages
promise unknown
those endless hours
no words of your own
the well has run dry
there's not a drop left
nothing remains to slake that thirst
patterns that once were new
now all seem so dull
not much to offer
content to carry on
on a couch ever softer
stifling yet a yawn
the well has run dry
there's not a drop left
nothing remains to slake that thirst
patterns that once were new
now all seem so dull
you're passing the baton
faded & withdrawn
the well has run dry
there's not a drop left
nothing remains to slake that thirst
patterns that once were new
now all seem so dull
days are all too noisy
nights never long enough
you only seem to want to
vanish with a puff....