Dear Rose

Making my way through the quarter

I saw Rose looking fashionably torn

Safe harboring at Starbucks

A homeless drunkard asleep on the shaft

In the smoke behind that beaten body rose a song

Of a world gone wrong

But nobody’s picking up songs today

Well, Rose is a writer

Takes her coffee black; soaking sugar cubes on the spoon

Rose getting real in an easy way

Digging an English band, working part time in a second hand book store

She isn’t in it for money

She isn’t in it for fun

No, she’s on the look out for stories to tell

And the place where the words come from an eternal source

She isn’t in it for glory

She isn’t in it for fame

She’s on the look out for a higher plane

That’s the essence – and what she told me

Over coffee at Starbucks

That was right at the end of the second millennium

Things where about to come down

But nothing changed, nothing ever really did

I hope it goes for dear Rose too

Dear Rose

Making my way through the quarter

I heard somebody mentioning Rose

Giving the outlines

Of a beautiful but complicated life

If you measure success by the norm of today we could rule out Rose

Well as it happens some of us don’t

Dear Rose ...