I think I heard in the analog Something of your voice Reminding me of some simple folly Some simple vice, some simple thing you needed me to change. To make this white rose red, Is to see it seething in the throes of your despondency, I simply walk away, Before I see you as less than I saw you yesterday. In my absence, what do you see? When you have no one else to blame for your imperfections? When you have no one else to throw those stones at, That you have gathered in your yard? Tell me, or don't, it doesn't really matter, Who are you when you not the fixer of the broken man? Just another aimless drifter I suppose, Just another soul lost under the bridge down by the bay. Who are you, do you even wonder, When you count your friends by their ideas When you hold that candle to your own weathered veil? Does it, too, burn with the madness you are so pained to see? I can't remember when last we spoke, When the Sun shone so brightly up above To cast our forms upon the icy ground, My shadow next to yours. Yet, I hear your voice, still... Reminding me of who you thought I'd be Of who you thought I was, Of who you thought I AM... Your mistaken identity of me. If we judge the bird newly emerged from the egg, We shall never see it fly... If we hold too tightly to the nest on which we're born We will never know the truth beyond this tree. If the Universe never moved beyond that single speck, You'd and me, we'd be just ideas in the darkness, If we never took that step beyond the cave, We would have never seen the waves break upon the summer sands. So, count as honored the very first of us, Who walked beyond the length of chain, Others had wrapped around his neck, And chained to the walls of their own making. Count as blessed the very first of us, Who squinted at the Sun, Who stepped out beyond the darkened walls around him, Or her, as I think the case may be. Stand firm in your hallowed prison walls, And see nothing of the stars. Embrace the bars you've grown to love And feel nothing of the true wind caress your skin. Try not to hate the free One who cries at your plight, Or beckons you to fly... For he loves you... or she does, as I think the case may be. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, For then shall be filled, Surely no prison is right for the free man So what shall be his fill? Nothing, I suppose... It's all just a dream, a screen-less movie played upon the open air, A lost cause in the realization That there is no such thing as an empty glass. And that bread alone cannot satisfy your hunger There must be something more... Than the manna from a book, Or the thoughts from a man who's never known the Earth to move around the Sun. Oh...sigh... There I go again. Sadly mistaking the sand for the concrete you say it is, I'll watch the house you've built fall, While you say that was always the reason you built it. Goodbye, I must leave, The ideas mounting will surely bring us back to... I think I heard in the analog Something of your voice Reminding me of some simple folly Some simple vice, some simple thing you needed me to change. To make this white rose red, is to see it seething in the throes of your despondency, I simply walk away, Before I see you as less that I saw you yesterday.
