By: Eric Vance Walton
wing-tip dreams come calling
softly, persistently
those starched seams
of material obsession
trite expressions that seem
to echo so endlessly
I've left it all behind this time
left it all behind in my mind
The alarm clock dawn
methodical in its wringing,
starving, stealing time
so stealthily that you hardly notice
until one day you wake up faded,
to a jaded, gaunt and hungry hue.
I've left it all behind this time
left it all behind in my mind
So this is how it feels to be free?
To be set adrift like some Coltrane riff
When need's an endless song
Can't tell you where I'll be tomorrow
I may be drawn back into the
Yawn of the alarm clock dawn
Balance is my only hope to end up
Somewhere in the middle...
