PATIENCE (air traffic control)
PATIENCE
Steer the ship as you will, if the rocks are for you, find them you will. And when the sun shines brightest, into an ordinary day, the storm will come, and sweep you away.
No place to run, nowhere to hide, the ghost is in you. And the dream, the dream that you held, the one that kept you afloat, is dashed on the rocks. It leaks love and it's lemon drips drops.
Over and over, the cycle repeats, the same dream, themes, like a life of endless repeats. The message is clear, but falls on deaf ears. For the cage that was built, is lovely and sweet.
You have sailed, set forth, fought, but each time you die, you always survive. The clock ticks, but who notices time. What is this reason and rhyme.
Running, falling, climbing, basking in glory, failure or success, it's never enough. Love seeps under the door, I watch it go by. I know it's name, it's written in shame.
I am not what I love, I am tied to the chair. The room is filled with the empty of plenty, paid for with sweat, tears and the blood of my fears.
Then you walk in the door . . . . . . .
From ""The Book That Dreams"
© G P F for All images and text, please do not use without my express permission.
PATIENCE (air traffic control)
PATIENCE
Steer the ship as you will, if the rocks are for you, find them you will. And when the sun shines brightest, into an ordinary day, the storm will come, and sweep you away.
No place to run, nowhere to hide, the ghost is in you. And the dream, the dream that you held, the one that kept you afloat, is dashed on the rocks. It leaks love and it's lemon drips drops.
Over and over, the cycle repeats, the same dream, themes, like a life of endless repeats. The message is clear, but falls on deaf ears. For the cage that was built, is lovely and sweet.
You have sailed, set forth, fought, but each time you die, you always survive. The clock ticks, but who notices time. What is this reason and rhyme.
Running, falling, climbing, basking in glory, failure or success, it's never enough. Love seeps under the door, I watch it go by. I know it's name, it's written in shame.
I am not what I love, I am tied to the chair. The room is filled with the empty of plenty, paid for with sweat, tears and the blood of my fears.
Then you walk in the door . . . . . . .
From ""The Book That Dreams"
© G P F for All images and text, please do not use without my express permission.