The Road Not Long Enough

Just a bike ride,
In the night,
Where the animals follow the light,
To find shelter,
To find hope,
Like the razor in time for the angry man's dope.

And the moonlight,
Is countered,
By eyes.

And she waits under the trees,
The stars following me,
And the world wears a mask,
With balloons at each ends,
And the task,
To professionally pretend.

The lake was gone,
And the sea was invalid,
I told her to look for a key,
A sign,
A ballad.

You're drowning,
But you can't swim.

A gritty remark,
Am I that dim?

And then a war ensues,
Between dissatisfaction,
And moths do wait,
In orderless actions,
And you leave me,
With a doubt,
Or a growing sense of decision.

Somebody is in your arms now,
Somebody else seeks out your throat,
And that somebody,
Is the body,
Of reflections,
On that lake.

Because the key,
And the sign,
And the ballad,
Is an angel,
That you ridicule.

And angel,
That I took,
To be you.

And the stars all agree,
That the leaves,
And the veins,
Made up of copper terrains,
Are a nightmare.

As the bike ride,
Of the night,
Ends,
With me there.

And the wolves,
Like the squirrels,
Stalk the arms of endearment,
Like elation,
Like a rogue.

Like a nation of hungry frogs.

Trip To Nebraska

I was on my way home,
The telephone lines,
Were my stream,
Was my dream,
Even a plastic foam.

The sun was always with me,
But then so is everyone,
The clouds they hide behind,
The things they keep in mind,
When things are just a little lost at sea.

I thought it would be easy,
Just like the other day,
When I lost my bayonet,
To the lady in grey,
When I didn't have anything to say.

A trip to Nebraska.

I wanted to leave you,
But you were always by the roadsides,
Waving back at me,
When I long to be,
What I wanted to leave.

And you told me to reason,
Of butterflies and prisms,
To make love of everything,
But I was thinking too much,
I was conscious of the fact,
That I've lost my touch.

What do you see from Hawaii,
Looking into the wooden box,
Of bombers and tanks,
Of leaders in ranks,
Of commercials in boxes too.

I wanted to be with you,
But then I got angry,
And I dropped the cynic off the hills,
And I was trying to make truce.

But you see what's wrong,
Of me trying to write a song,
Is the fact that I'm trying,
That I'm trying to belong.

End.