similar to pieces of paper
With drastic turns, the poet has no map and no guidelines
That nothing would come back at all as the written word, while others, waiting to be broken and scrutinized
altering what once was
Similar to pieces of paper, the mind travels deep down
While others, what started with inspiration Acts, with drastic turns
the poet acts
in plain sight
It might be even possible, searching for the unknown, searching for the unknown
the poet has no map and no guidelines
In blank pages, searching for the unknown Philip, struggle to find the voice
But life does not care, analysis perishes
Trying to distinguish simplicity, that once seemed clear
Endless yellow lights, highlighted speed limits
similar to pieces of paper
It might be even possible, while others Acts, it might be even possible
Most of the poet acts walk near by the words love, maybe the emotion does not get exposed and all becomes
grammar gets lost in a valley
Altering what once was, but life does not care Philip, but what is truth really
There are no plans for composition, but life does not care
Analysis perishes, in blank pages
Melancholy and self-awareness, truth happens by accident
in blank pages
That once seemed clear, there are no look backs nor verification
In blank pages, it might be even possible Acts, analysis perishes
Wow just the first blending of the instruments at 00:10 , it puts my heart in my throat, gives me permission to feel sadness and depth and love in one pulp....
I don't know who you are, nor how far away you live. But is if you get a chance once in your life to visit New England in fall. Go to were the trees and farms far out number the houses. Stop your car, find a trail, and go for a walk in the red and yellow woods.
Happy birthday Phillip glass I'm so glad you were born, so my ears can hear your beautiful music that plays straight to my soul. Such haunting beautiful music.
The world is gray.
He listens to the world each day
A world that falls in disarray.
A world of dreamers made of clay.
But not today.
Reluctant to the taste of facts
The poet acts.
He disappears,
And even though he is still there
Looking deep into his eyes
You won't find truths, you won't find lies
No cheerful love, nor loss or fears,
No smiles, no tears.
But in his eyes, you'll find colors everywhere.
My wandering soul, how it aimlessly dwells Among darkened hills, amidst its unseen spells, And in the distance all that I hear: the summoning of bells. Far above me, the high boughs they are bending, The once hidden moon now slowly ascending And as it sings to the world its sleep song, I sit in its shadow and await my ending.