Two Songs
METACOGNITION AMBITION
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Most of you would call me crazy,
If I were to say,
That what I love to do the most,
Is stare at the wall all day,
Most of you would laugh and point,
And whisper to your friends,
"He's staring at the wall, it seems,
He's at it now again",
Is he thinking, is he zoning,
Is he flat out crazy?
Perhaps he dreaming up a scheme,
Or perhaps he's flat out lazy,
"Productivity", you tell me,
"Productivity", you say,
"There's got to be more to do,
Than stare at the wall all day!"
But would you even understand,
If to you I chose to call,
Sometimes doing nothing is,
The most productive thing of all,
The Ghost of Leopold
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In the yard where he now lays,
Where his bones are low and cold,
Among the chilled air he dwells,
The ghost of Leopold,
On his violin he holds,
The one that was buried with him,
He plays a tune, a haunting tune,
A tune from his heart within,
A patron saint to all of the fathers,
Who's children bore them pride,
Who want to touch, who yet so close,
But are barred from the outside,
His bow slides against the strings,
His passion deep and red,
His passion for his son who lies,
In the earth now cold and dead,
"He created life in the souls of the world,
His songs eternally sing,
Forth did I bring, the angel who sings,
The songs that forever will ring,
After all that he did, after all that he wrote,
He had a heart and a mind made of gold,
After all that I've done, did he ever remember,
His poor father, dead Leopold?
Did he love me", often he asks,
"I'll never know for certain,"
That his son adored the father,
Who now lies under this curtain,
His eyes, passionate, cold and blue,
Well up with mournful tears
He sees his son rise up from the ground,
After long forgotten years,
"Father, how could I, father of mine,
Ever loathe the likes of you?
In me you had faith when I did not,
And you tried to steer me through,
I suppose that when I said that day,
I create for my own desires,
That was a lie, I was never the same,
After the day that you expired,
I wept for days, papa, you see,
I wished you alive, if only,
And I never ever forgave myself,
For letting you die so lonely,
I've forgiven you father, after all this time,
For the things you did to me,
For chaining me down, pulling me around,
And laughing at my whims and dreams,
You were my teacher, my mentor and friend,
You gave me wings to fly,
Above all, you were my father,
I blamed myself when you died,"
In Leopold's cold and frozen eyes,
Ghostlike tears trickle down,
He embraces his son, forgiveness won,
And they both sink back in the ground,
The mist rolls over the grounds,
Following the bonding embrace,
Then the sun will rise, brighten the skies,
Of their presence, there isn't a trace,
---------------------------------------
Most of you would call me crazy,
If I were to say,
That what I love to do the most,
Is stare at the wall all day,
Most of you would laugh and point,
And whisper to your friends,
"He's staring at the wall, it seems,
He's at it now again",
Is he thinking, is he zoning,
Is he flat out crazy?
Perhaps he dreaming up a scheme,
Or perhaps he's flat out lazy,
"Productivity", you tell me,
"Productivity", you say,
"There's got to be more to do,
Than stare at the wall all day!"
But would you even understand,
If to you I chose to call,
Sometimes doing nothing is,
The most productive thing of all,
The Ghost of Leopold
------------------------------
In the yard where he now lays,
Where his bones are low and cold,
Among the chilled air he dwells,
The ghost of Leopold,
On his violin he holds,
The one that was buried with him,
He plays a tune, a haunting tune,
A tune from his heart within,
A patron saint to all of the fathers,
Who's children bore them pride,
Who want to touch, who yet so close,
But are barred from the outside,
His bow slides against the strings,
His passion deep and red,
His passion for his son who lies,
In the earth now cold and dead,
"He created life in the souls of the world,
His songs eternally sing,
Forth did I bring, the angel who sings,
The songs that forever will ring,
After all that he did, after all that he wrote,
He had a heart and a mind made of gold,
After all that I've done, did he ever remember,
His poor father, dead Leopold?
Did he love me", often he asks,
"I'll never know for certain,"
That his son adored the father,
Who now lies under this curtain,
His eyes, passionate, cold and blue,
Well up with mournful tears
He sees his son rise up from the ground,
After long forgotten years,
"Father, how could I, father of mine,
Ever loathe the likes of you?
In me you had faith when I did not,
And you tried to steer me through,
I suppose that when I said that day,
I create for my own desires,
That was a lie, I was never the same,
After the day that you expired,
I wept for days, papa, you see,
I wished you alive, if only,
And I never ever forgave myself,
For letting you die so lonely,
I've forgiven you father, after all this time,
For the things you did to me,
For chaining me down, pulling me around,
And laughing at my whims and dreams,
You were my teacher, my mentor and friend,
You gave me wings to fly,
Above all, you were my father,
I blamed myself when you died,"
In Leopold's cold and frozen eyes,
Ghostlike tears trickle down,
He embraces his son, forgiveness won,
And they both sink back in the ground,
The mist rolls over the grounds,
Following the bonding embrace,
Then the sun will rise, brighten the skies,
Of their presence, there isn't a trace,