The Beau Brummels Follow

Though I stood on several mountains
And swept beneath the fountains of your web
Though I'm strangled and entangled
And captured in the dangling of your threads
There is nothing left but silence
No call at all for violence
Like a shadow on the run

When I've seen the winds blow crazy
Watch lovers lost and lazy through the dawn
When I've broken you deserting
And spoken though the curtains of a song
There is nothing left but pictures
And time worn crazy mixtures
From your gentle wandering ways

I climbed up cathedral towers
And listened to the hours tolling by
As we talked by glinting candles
In endless city ramblings of the sky
There is nothing left but faces
Empty shattered traces
From your gentle wandering ways

I stepped over many chasms
And floundered in the fathoms of your wake
Since I’m running through the spanning
Unused to all the fanning of your traits
There is nothing left to be won
In the pageants of the sun
And your gentle wandering ways