The Drifter from Lost Hours by Meadownet

Corner of a painted room, boy plays with the light
Faces drawn in window fog, watching them take flight
Voice behind the curtain laughs, smile still unknown
The autumn leaves all skip in pairs, he wanders back alone

The Drifter walks, the Drifter sees
The world go by like scattered leaves
No name to call, no hand to lift
He fades into the quiet drift

Jukebox hums in minor keys, Glass sweats in his hand
Couple trades their weary jokes; he almost makes a stand
The mirror shows a tired face, not one you’d want to meet
He tips the barkeep far too much and disappears to streets

The Drifter walks, the Drifter sees
The world go by like scattered leaves
No name to call, no hand to lift
He fades into the quiet drift

Now benches serve as better friends than names he used to know
He nods at dogs and wandering kids, then watches people go
He mouths the words to passing songs that no one ever hears
And finds a kind of company in all those silent years

The Drifter walks, the Drifter sees
The world go by like scattered leaves
No name to call, no hand to lift
He fades into the quiet drift

• Rock
• chamber pop
• folk
• psychedelic rock
• Cape Girardeau