The night sets softly
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With the hush of falling leaves,
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Casting shivering shadows
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On the houses through the trees,
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And the light from a street lamp
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Paints a pattern on my wall,
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Like the pieces of a puzzle
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Or a child's uneven scrawl.
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Up a narrow flight of stairs
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In a narrow little room,
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As I lie upon my bed
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In the early evening gloom.
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Impaled on my wall
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My eyes can dimly see
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The pattern of my life
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And the puzzle that is me.
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From the moment of my birth
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To the instant of my death,
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There are patterns I must follow
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Just as I must breathe each breath.
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Like a rat in a maze
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The path before me lies,
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And the pattern never alters
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Until the rat dies.
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And the pattern still remains
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On the wall where darkness fell,
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And it's fitting that it should,
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For in darkness I must dwell.
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Like the color of my skin,
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Or the day that I grow old,
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My life is made of patterns
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That can scarcely be controlled.
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-----------------
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Patterns
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| Paul Simon |
