The Night Sets Softly

With The Hush Of Falling Leaves,

Casting Shivering Shadows

On The Houses Through The Trees,

And The Light From A Street Lamp

Paints A Pattern On My Wall,

Like The Pieces Of A Puzzle

Or A Child's Uneven Scrawl.



Up A Narrow Flight Of Stairs

In A Narrow Little Room,

As I Lie Upon My Bed

In The Early Evening Gloom.

Impaled On My Wall

My Eyes Can Dimly See

The Pattern Of My Life

And The Puzzle That Is Me.



From The Moment Of My Birth

To The Instant Of My Death,

There Are Patterns I Must Follow

Just As I Must Breathe Each Breath.

Like A Rat In A Maze

The Path Before Me Lies,

And The Pattern Never Alters

Until The Rat Dies.



And The Pattern Still Remains

On The Wall Where Darkness Fell,

And It's Fitting That It Should,

For In Darkness I Must Dwell.

Like The Color Of My Skin,

Or The Day That I Grow Old,

My Life Is Made Of Patterns

That Can Scarcely Be Controlled.