Deserted Old.

Once upon a time, this place

Was a desert of wind, a deserted race

Dwell-ed within.

But that’s just dust on a forgotten book,

Now, this place, is hardly the same.

Water flows, so does champagne

There is hardly  an ugly voice in the crowd

That could sing you to tears,  make you cry out loud

All I can hear, is delicate fingers

Playing the piano, wearing a perfume that lingers

All I can see is a flood of gold

And I crave and crave for my deserted old.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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