
On, we yearn to fly,
our pasts are a bit blurry;
rain drops on windows.

On, we yearn to fly,
our pasts are a bit blurry;
rain drops on windows.

Small town existence
the silence of the morning
echoes through the fog.

Down an alleyway;
cold mornings and coffee shops
warm hug in a mug.

Roaming our sidewalks,
awry limbed shadow figures;
paintings no one sees.