The Ghost Of Time
It hurts to read your poetry again...
My mind's too busy; wondering which ones aren't about me.
Could they possibly measure up?
I've always been naive, but Satan knows you don't posses the same sparkle in your eyes as when ours met.
When you'd scribble with the moon; howling in uncertainty the minute the clock struck our magic number.
Keep your eyes off the clock.
You already know what time it is.
You'll merely dampen your heart with the sins of the past.
And beg for his thirteen ghosts to haunt you once again;
And they give in every time.
Because, Baby it's our witching hour. ONE, FOUR, THREE,
And I can't remember a time that it wasn't.