Crowding my head
Like drunks at a ball game
Possibilities
Probabilities
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments are always welcome, unless you are going to be mean, in which case you can go straight to hell.
Please leave at least some form of name so I don't get all paranoid and think you are a stalker or my mother.