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.