Jason's Song

Jason’s room has a funny smell,
smelt like mold on the windowsill.
Jason’s laugh could break an egg
but nothing else: he was the quiet type.

Never I did understand
what he meant, who I am.
Reading Jason Sam I Am,
I would sit and he would stand.

Resting Jason’s head on mine,
through a dream I saw a sign.
Crusade quest was the prophecy,
float downstream the mystery,

Jason joined me hand in hand:
always he did understand.
Off we left on a cloud canoe,
drifting under our mother moon.

The river emptied in his room,
four half-shut eyes were our disguises.
Chasing Jason around the room,
like fresh plucked spring in the afternoon,
staring Jason eye to eye,
like two lone clouds in the morning sky.