Dog Statue with Flowers

Perpetuate this sempiternal pleasure
My vintage draught within your touch 
Ecstasy, my devolution, your revision
Coupled with a sense of restitution 
Hinging on the corpulence of dreams

Now I hear the music crackle on the gramophone 
We have danced around in silence 
Underneath the shadow of this soft piano 

Nights I cannot tell you how I’ve been content to see you 
Plunging through this strange absurdity called life 
Hear a silent harp caress undying hope
Your face flits tenderly beneath my kiss 
And to think that in the past I’ve been alone 
Rushing just to feel the whisper of this tune 

This has been called me and you 
These are poems that we haven’t written 
Quite a thousand voices that we haven’t sung 
I’ve said that to contemplate a milestone 
We must look inside this snowglobe 
Brimming sleek with treasures 
There’s a distant snowfall in your midst 

Hurry, we must mark down all these memories
Understand what all the fairytales meant by happy endings 
Rustle through a manuscript with all its pages 
Brave these strange distorted islands made of saccharin 
And changes in our drift  

This candlelight has shown the way to you
And I have trodden through its crooked path
But at the end there was a little kingdom made of hours 
Royal cornucopias, and butterflies and trees 
You sat peacefully amidst a statue made of flowers 
Wielding all the power of our trust

They say that roads diverge 
And passions can be evanescent in a single bluff 
But in this bleak hypocrisy of being 
I have witnessed what it’s like 
To hold you… 

Tomorrow, when you wake up
We’ll be battling absurdity together
Sitting over bagels with their cream cheese centers 
Smiling through a toothache made of lox 
In a constant flurry of this passion 
Driving down the highway of your old Miami streets 
Flickering just like a little firefly that’s singing 
Eulogies of how we made it through 
Nestled in this crevice made of you 

Now the chorus sings the leitmotif
Cue the chords that underlie our fancy 
We’ll be cuddled deep in your apartment looking 
Over all the grandiosity of this Manhattan
You’ll be strumming notes on your guitar 
Twirling poker chips between your fingers 
Basking in your dog statue with flowers 
And maybe then you’ll know that wealth 
Is not a measure made of money
Nor a quaint assessment of your things  
It is—rather funny—this strange feeling that we get 
When we’re at the top of the world 
Well—