There's a good strum goin'
And a stream runnin' through
These late summer days;
There's a fine rhythm
We're all livin' in
That's kept our lips perched light upon our chins.
Looks out dear camp and kin,
We're in a scary smiley season once again,
And the questions running through us
Are the same:
"How many summers do we get?"
Children no longer,
We miss the sweet breeze
Of invincibility that blew fast
Through in those Goddamned good old days.
Now in a great August rain we run and hide,
Cover our collections and our hair,
Long and dried but ours to hold tight,
And the wet dirt haunts us
With an aroma of fate;
Hope's final blow
In the terrifying odor of a final finite day.
Yes, to know one day to be doused
With one last awful shower;
Kids no more, we daren't dance
For we smell death in a summer rain,
And for worse,
For we remember frivolous youth:
With heads and safe smiles,
We were free
From the rusty shackles of self-preservation.
Yay, remembering is the torture,
Childhood dreams our only hauntings,
And yet, all the same, our one last chance,
For there is something ever real
About those early days,
Free to run in fields and grab at rain,
Sacred of dragons,
But clear of shame.
Is there a way to return once again,
Those shadow-creatures of reverie past?
The fires we started
In those early summer woods
Sent smoke signals that, at last,
We're now seeing,
Billowing and beckoning, but
Perhaps, it's the whole damned scene that's burning,
While we're yet yearning
For just one more clear Spring day
And a fairytale way
To keep it from dying.
Up in smoke, must it all go?
How do we get back?
Where will the dawn come from?
Our dusk rains down upon us and reeks
In the dampened dust beneath our weary feet.
The happy summer strum
That we've been loving to
Grows somber as September
(Yes, another September!)
"How, how, how..."
But the beat rolls on and the fog returns,
"How, how, how many more..."
It's the whole returning bit that burns.
"How many more will we get?
How many more..."
The Fall falls heavy and fast
And our shoulders can't hold it.
Keep on, my people,
Hold those smiles high.
The thunder comes
And it sounds so crushing,
But don't go running.
Stay with me.
Oh won't you stay?
It's not too late.
Just one more round,
One more morning day together;
Don't let this summer simmer.
"What if, what if...
What if it's our last?"
The smoke builds
And fills the windows between the trees;
Leave now then if you must;
Pack up and go,
Up in smoke.
But I'll stay.
I can still smell it,
It's here somewhere,
The summer rain - It can save us.
And your songs and stories too,
Will you bring them?
"How much longer will you..."
But the words fade into a crackle
And a dry gray collapses upon the camp.
Silent and alone
And only gray.
The signals linger and so do I,
But alas, is it a lost cause?
Perhaps it's now too late to get out?
"Where do we go from here?"
Cries into the sudden night,
Into whatever lies off, beyond,
The days and dusks and death
"Who else is here to hear this?"
Where have all our summer songs gone?
We're damndelions, growing, blowing old.