Patterns

The night sets softly With the hush of falling le-e-eaves, Casting shivering shadows On the houses through the trees, And the light from a street lamp Paints a pattern on my wa-a-all, Like the pieces of a puzzle Or a child's uneven scrawl Up a narrow flight of stairs In a narrow little ro-o-oom, As I lie upon my bed In the early evening gloom. Impaled on my wall My eyes can dimly se-e-e The pattern of my life And the puzzle that is me. From the moment of my birth To the instant of my de-e-eath, There are Patterns I must follow Just as I must breathe each breath. Like a rat in a maze The path before me li-i-ies, And the pattern never alters Until the rat dies. And the pattern still remains On the wall where darkness fe-e-ell, And it's fitting that it should, For in darknesss I must dwell. Like the color of my skin, Or the day that I grow o-o-o-old, My life is made of Patterns That can scarcely be controlled.