Scrapbook

In the pages of a scrapbook I found up in the attic

just the other day

There are pictures old and faded; the corners all are frayed;

It seems they don't have much to say.

But I'm looking at

Pieces of my past

And I'm trying to recall all the faces

It's a very difficult, if not impossible, task

As I watch, the silver moon rolls behind a cloud that I

hadn't even seen

I lose track of time, standing here for hours

Looking at the pictures of what might have been,

what must have been

Then I hear a call

Voices in the hall

Take me back; I see we two--you and me--but

Then I look around, and there's nothing there at all

And I keep on looking for a place that's got to be

A face I used to see before I set you free

And I'm still searching for what I can never find

It's somewhere in my mind; I've left it far behind

In the pages of a scrapbook I found up in the attic

just the other day

There are pictures old and faded; the corners all are frayed;

It's time that they were thrown away.

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