Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Sometime After Midnight

Crowding my head
Like drunks at a ball game
And all of the things in between.

It's usually after midnight
That my fancy takes flight
Refusing to sit tight
Preferring not to act right

And that's when I wonder
Lay awake to ponder
The path that I'm on
And the one I could be on

This or that
Here or there
Now or never

But we all know that
It's not a path
It's a moving walkway
And there's no way to get off.

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