I write a poem, cross it out br write a song with no melody and hum br to myself and make up a story br where a character steals the sun br br and br br I watch the jilted star swing low br get caught in a black satin bag br carried away to a jail cell with br no windows, and rats in the corner br br and br br I write a new poem, erase it br write a song with no melody and hum br to myself and make up a story br where the sun swings back my way br br and br br I watch the next night, hope everything br has listened to my words, hope that br the sun swings low, swings hard br lights up the shadows on the wall br br and br br the shadows lengthen from the light br cast by the streetlamps, cast by the br passing headlights, watch them made to dance br by anything but my locked up sun br br and br br the bars on the windows cast heavy shadows br the rats on the floor run at the first sign of br light, and this iron chair holds no tender touch br and the world turns again br br and br br I have no song for itbr br Ben Paynterbr br