21 – chorus: cry by the fountain

gonna lay down my sorrows and woe
tell me someone’s more miserable than me
’bout ready to lay down my burden of living
tell me someone’s more tired than me
tell me someone hurts worse than me

I’m listening to this fountain
crying the sound of my tears
just let me stop aching for an answer
one more tear drop in a torrent
how much more Lord how many more

Lord, pray my child get’s better
don’t let my boy die this way
I’ve been talking to this fountain all day Lord
and it don’t hear how I pray
No, it don’t hear a word I say

Got to cry, ‘cause I feel like water
got to cry, so I can still feel the pain
Let me turn into a quiet little fountain
take me go back to the beginning again
Lord, take me back to the beginning again

someone once told me suffering will end
someone who never suffered at all
look at this water, it’s got no troubles
just wash away my hurt like little bubbles
wash away these troubles, end it all

gonna save my tears in this fountain
so I know where to find them again
only reason I’m sitting here crying
this fountain‘s in need of a friend
Lord, let each tear drop be its friend

22 – Weather Woman’s Lament for Love

I no longer trust necklaces,
strings of precious lies.
That grip us and keep us
by asking too much for what we want.

I give up pearls, diamonds, gold,
silver hippie beads and moroccan glass.
I cannot believe, another moment,
another string of lies.

One bound to the other, a chain reaction – all dreams!
The chase of the hot by the cold and the union
in snow and rain and thunderclash and drama –
all lies and childish dreams with no place to go,
no heroine, no hero, no redemption, no point.

I will lose my sun, my moon dogs, my rings;
I have lost all values and cannot tell you what that is worth.
I am drowning in a unseasonable micro-burst of exclusion
and no longer want to even know how to swim.
I cannot tell you what the future will bring,
what tomorrow is going to be like,
you’ll have to listen to the news for that.

I cast away the heat of the sun.
I forgo the tumescence of a handsome cumulonimbus.
I resent the equinoxes and re-setting of clockses—
the cant of the world can go to Kant
and suffer the consequences – I’m not going to.
I decant, recant, dirty old paint can can’t,
that’s my descant and rapid descent
into utter depression along the lines
of a running low front, accompanied by
fog and heavy blues. I have imagined you,
sought you so plaintively, heart yearning—
and I have only fallen in love, once again,
with a fantasy.