Nearing five o'clock, still webbing strings of images together trying to make some sense of the matter...
Nothing fits, just a mess of chewed up edges of a jigsaw...some worn down from overuse, some beaten around the edges from resent, some blurry where streams had been...
Too tired to sleep...
One drifting on, curled up and comfortable
One wide awake, yet too afraid at the time, to face the world and open her eyes
The song was playing, and the part came on
Comfortable will never know what her outreached hand meant to the one wallowing in the dark...
And open her eyes went
An image keeps repeating
Not of terror
Not of fear
But a simple romantic gesture for one that never came
A silly, cliche sort of dream
From early childhood
To come home to flowers on the back door step
With a note with just a name
Something about it would somehow make everything seem okay
But flowers?
What are they?
Oh my father gave me flowers once or twice, I remember
Only my father
Well, I suppose I should hold onto that
Since every experience has led to the same answer...
Some dreams, as simple as they may be, don't and wont come true
But that doesn't mean I still can't dream
No one should stop
Every experience is new
Old ones can be wrong
Thats the way we get by
Nothing fits, just a mess of chewed up edges of a jigsaw...some worn down from overuse, some beaten around the edges from resent, some blurry where streams had been...
Too tired to sleep...
One drifting on, curled up and comfortable
One wide awake, yet too afraid at the time, to face the world and open her eyes
The song was playing, and the part came on
Comfortable will never know what her outreached hand meant to the one wallowing in the dark...
And open her eyes went
An image keeps repeating
Not of terror
Not of fear
But a simple romantic gesture for one that never came
A silly, cliche sort of dream
From early childhood
To come home to flowers on the back door step
With a note with just a name
Something about it would somehow make everything seem okay
But flowers?
What are they?
Oh my father gave me flowers once or twice, I remember
Only my father
Well, I suppose I should hold onto that
Since every experience has led to the same answer...
Some dreams, as simple as they may be, don't and wont come true
But that doesn't mean I still can't dream
No one should stop
Every experience is new
Old ones can be wrong
Thats the way we get by
