[Intro]
A doorway glows with a whispered tune,
dust motes drift in a sleepy room.
Footsteps slow on a wooden floor,
a quiet can-can of chores in bloom.
[Verse]
An old hat sits warm upon his brow,
the plaid unfolds like a memory’s vow.
Pocket deep where secrets like to hide,
boots trace stories in the faded light.
Washing drums hum a patient refrain,
shirts and stains like stars in a plain.
Shelves bow under the weight of dawn,
a breeze and breath of a life nongone.
He stands between the noise and doors,
where quiet hums of metal chorus pours.
[Chorus]
Hold the moment, don’t let it fade,
in this doorway where meanings cascade.
Light spills soft from the hallway line,
he wears a calm that never tires.
Hold the moment, let it stay,
the present learns to breathe and sway.
In the hush, his hands find their tune,
in the rhythm of a laundry moon.
[Verse]
Clutter stacks like a shoreline of days,
a map of hours in a cupboard's maze.
The washing machine keeps time with a sigh,
linted confetti drifting through the sky.
Right arm down, left hand in his pocket’s keep,
he counts the breaths that the room can keep.
A ladder of shelves, a stack of pleas,
tools and towels rustle in the breeze.
He wears his quiet like a second skin,
a gateway where dawn slides back in.
[Chorus]
Hold the moment, don’t let it fade,
in this doorway where meanings cascade.
Light spills soft from the hallway line,
he wears a calm that never tires.
Hold the moment, let it stay,
the present learns to breathe and sway.
In the hush, his hands find their tune,
in the rhythm of a laundry moon.
[Bridge]
A thrum of distant life behind the glass,
a kettle’s whistle leaking from the past.
He steps back, zeroed in on what remains,
the simple throne of work and rain.
A silhouette in plaid, a weathered friend,
the kitchen hums a script that won’t amend.
He glances over, a quiet nod to time,
a story etched in copper and lime.
[Chorus]
Hold the moment, don’t let it fade,
in this doorway where meanings cascade.
Light spills soft from the hallway line,
he wears a calm that never tires.
Hold the moment, let it stay,
the present learns to breathe and sway.
In the hush, his hands find their tune,
in the rhythm of a laundry moon.
[Outro]
Doorway dims, but the pulse remains,
a doorframe song through the cluttered plains.
And every breath keeps the scene in tune,
the cowboy clock beneath a wandering moon.
GrizzlyJones
