(P. Simon)
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It's a still life water color,
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Of a now late afternoon,
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As the sun shines through the curtained lace
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And shadows wash the room.
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And we sit and drink our coffee
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Couched in our indifference,
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Like shells upon the shore
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You can hear the ocean roar
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In the dangling conversation
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And the superficial sighs,
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The borders of our lives.
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And you read your Emily Dickinson,
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And I my Robert Frost,
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And we note our place with bookmarkers
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That measure what we've lost.
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Like a poem poorly written
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We are verses out of rhythm,
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Couplets out of rhyme,
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In syncopated time
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And the dangled conversation
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And the superficial sighs,
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Are the borders of our lives.
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Yes, we speak of things that matter,
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With words that must be said,
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"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
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"Is the theater really dead?"
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And how the room is softly faded
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And I only kiss your shadow,
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I cannot feel your hand,
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You're a stranger now unto me
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Lost in the dangling conversation.
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And the superficial sighs,
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In the borders of our lives.
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-----------------
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The Dangling Conversation
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| Simon & Garfunkel |
