Back before I knew your name,
your one true north,
your compass aim,
Back before I heard your voice,
tasted your teeth,
and felt your noise,
Back before I saw your scars,
dug up your grave,
and drank your tar,
Back before the monsoon came,
I knew nothing of the rain.
Why do lions hunt their prey, in the middle of the day?
And why do strangers seem so strange, if all people are the same?
"What makes you get out of bed?"
You once asked me.
And I once said,
"My bed will be there later on, from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn,
but a day is like a human life,
once it's begun, it starts to die."
Morbid.
Sad.
and So Naive.
Instead of names you gave me these.
You hated who I had become,
though I'd never changed the song I sung.
It's not the sweetest melody,
I'll be the first one to agree,
the tempo's rude,
the words are harsh,
the violin sparks in the dark.
Far away from crib-side yarn,
it fits more in a smoke-filled bar.
It is not a gentle harmony,
but I'll be damned, if it's not me.
And I warned you when we first became
more than strangers being strange,
that lions hunt during the day,
and I was hungry, in a way.
