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Brightly Polished Horn
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A Day In The Life He looks so pathetic,
In his room tonight,
Not the bright lights mystique,
I'd have expected by sight.
But, a worn lonely man,
With no bridge for his pain,
Save the brightly polished horn,
Which echoes his refrain.
And the room is filled with smoke,
From the breath he's traded in,
And his scent and form descending,
Trace the lines of where he's been.
But, the crowd can't see his secrets,
Nor his wounded heart by day,
But, they recognize his gifts,
When the music starts to play.
And he lays his heartaches down,
In the club that's paid his fee,
In the comfort of this room,
From his ghosts he will be free.
And the passion of his message,
Can be seen by all who stare,
At the virtuoso's offering,
To the patrons gathered there.
And the sweat upon his forehead,
Shows true feeling for his art,
For he wears his heartache on his sleeve,
When the heavenly music starts.
For the sweetest sounds emerging,
From this brightly polished horn,
Offer ageless sounds of therapy,
From which mortals are not born.
But, his sounds will capture hearts,
And feed their souls pure light,
And give him reason to carry on,
Throughout each lonely night.
For he's the keeper of the flame,
His horn, the sword of peace,
And his songs are pure enchantment,
With a heavenly release.
And he lays his heartaches down,
In the club that's paid his fee,
In the comfort of this room,
From his ghosts he will be free.
And the passion of his message,
Can be seen by all who stare,
At the virtuoso's offering,
To the patrons gathered there.
