Man of a Thousand Faces sing and play along

The man of a thousand faces

sits down at the table,

eats a small lump of sugar

and smiles at the moon like he knows her.

He begins his quiet ascension

without anyone's steady instruction.

To a place and no religion,

he's found a path to her alikeness.

His words are quiet like stains are

on a tablecloth washed in a river.

Stains that are trying to cover for each other,

or at least blend in with the pattern.

Good is better than perfect,

scrub 'til your fingers are bleeding.

And I'm crying for things that

I tell others to do without crying.

He used to go to his favorite bookstores

and rip out his favorite pages,

and stuff them into his breast pocket.

The moon, to him, was a stranger.

Now he sits down at the table

right next to the window

and begins his quiet ascension

without anyone's steady instruction.

To a place and no religion,

he's found a path to her alikeness.

And he eats a small lump of sugar

and smiles at the moon like he knows her.