Misty Meadows

A leaf-blown adolescent, in the summer in the city
Where resonates a common tune: too young, too much, too soon..
And dog-eared in the doldrums, book of days just keeps repeating-
Like a figure in the blackness, half-perceived and always leaving
Oh- what is life but misty meadows?
Oh- what are choices, what are shadows?

And cold plateaus are great for planes to climb off, take off,
Cut that, rip that paper sky of solitude-
To prove he’s more than sleep and food...

That quietness of conscience graced the jagged edge of reason
Like an inner tantrum at the ball, a firewall, a curtain call
But oh- what is life but misty meadows?
Oh- what are choices, what are shadows?

With some luck he saves some money-
Builds a shelf and puts things on it
And his chances change to planned events-
No longer just an accident..
But always late at night and sometimes early in the morning
he feels lost within the life he bought-
Lost like a penny, lost like a dog
And oh- what is life but misty meadows?
Oh- what are choices, what are shadows?

Like a dream on its knees when tomorrow is near,
Like a ghost trying hard not to disappear...