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Don Whitaker
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Gnarled Bones
I've no memory of the greatest loving
of my existence, only an odd feeling
of great loss, which I carry like gnarled bones.
All these bones I heft through this strange life, dragging
myself through the long process, yearning, trying
my damnedest to create a pure peace, my tones.
Know you're out there somewhere, I see,
find you anywhere, I believe,
I'll never stop searching, I'll be
a better man for the journey,
just a good man for the journey.
Some call me crazy, living with gnarled bones,
bones in my music, bones in the very eyes
of my exuberance; why do they appear
when my will would grind them down like pumice stones?
Then her spirit hints, a déjà vu, belies
something I cannot grasp; she's just a veneer.
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Know you're out there somewhere, I see,
find you anywhere, I believe,
I'll never stop searching, I'll be
a better man for the journey,
just a good man for the journey.
Glimpse her in the corner of a fresh girl's eye,
in the tilt of a waitress' slender hand,
Once I dreamt her say, “I fear you'll never trust
in death, but then can you trust one such as I?”
She's in the brown river of Time, I'm the sand;
I've always known she's the steel and I'm the rust.
Know you're out there somewhere, I see,
find you anywhere, I believe,
I'll never stop searching, I'll be
a better man for the journey,
just a good man for the journey.
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