The Walk
I almost made it there by bus
But the Greyhound ran too fast
The people seemed uneasy of its riding wheels
Are they looking sadly and wearily upon their lives, I wondered?
At a bend along the way, I asked the driver slowly to let me go
I told him beyond old trees was a memory of a dirt road
It was covered in pine needles, as always this time of year
They're fun to walk upon, and the air smells fresh
Just as a boyhood recollected by older years
I almost made it there by bus, but a driver let me find a slower way

Sky
Words start streaming through my mind like a radio
When I'm home from work, I got these songs as verse:
Like feet dancing on creaky stairs
Like a poet painting the sky
Like fingertips touching her lips
When I feel the stream-a-consciousness like rolling red eyes,
I know its time for work

So I turn on my ear like it's a radio, and:
1. Change the station
2. Paint a poet's sky
3. Hold my breath ...Dance to sleep on creaky stairs