Somewhere there's a soccer game.
I can hear the wild crowd moan.
It's not that life here is distasteful to me.
It's just that I'm all alone.
I wanted what took a lifetime to learn.
And to turn around and start again.
And after that to turn and sigh.
With no more pause than I had then.
It's not that it's such a mystery.
I saw it from miles away.
In time I'll only think of you.
When I'm buttering my toast.
Or some other reflective moment.
Or something.
When I experience.
The fact the least.
Or the most.
It's not that it's such a mystery.
It's practically on display.
We've got world enough in time.
So whether youth comes or goes.
I hope you'll always think of me as mine.
Not one of those.
It's not that it's such a mystery.
This new found malaise.
It's just that this mystery.
Has taken your place.
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