Watermark

How delicate the tracery of her fine lines Like the moonlight lacetops of the evening pines, Like a song half heard through a closed door, Like an old book when you cannot read the writing anymore. How innocent her visage as my child lover lies Pressed against the rainswept windy windows of my eyes, Like an antique etching glass design That somehow turned out wrong. I keep looking through old varnish At my late lover's body Caught on ancient canvas, And decaying...disappearing Even as I sing this song. How secretly and silently my sorrow disappears: You can't see it with your eyes or hear it with your ears; It's like a Watermark that's never there and never really gone. I keep looking through old varnish At my late lover's body, Caught on ancient canvas, And decaying...disappearing Even as I sing this song. Even as I sing this song. Even as I sing this song.