GREEN DRESS, WHITE SHOES
Shouldnít have to have happened
But it did and itís done.
I donít even remember her number
And there ainít no way to relive it.
Death came like a critique
Of a work not yet written.
And when Death speaks of LoveÖ
When burning arrows fly
Down the path in the darkÖ.
Green dress, white shoes,
Cold as a block of ice,
I sit beside her corpse
Combing her hair as I did as a child.
I got a bad feeling tonight,
But it donít matter.
I got a world love,
Right to my very soul.
At the top of the hill, I just went
On out to see what otherís need.
The precious hours we shared stand still
As if they were the most valuable trophies.
I owe my heart to her.
Mountains came together at their peaks
For her to pass.
In the march of everyday identity,
I threw a few clothes into the sack.
No man knows his constitution
Or how he gave wholeheartedly.
Spoken word version from Homage.
Copyright © 2007 by Jim Cohn.