Move away with me,
a road trip;
never ending, always driving.
We'll make a home on the road
and watch the scenery through
rolled down windows.
Watch the world we left behind
as we continue beyond.

And, it's not running away, I promise you.
It is never closing our eyes as we make our way
forward through the blur of the life around us.

I'll watch over you as you rest through the dawn
in the backseat of my car.
Once the night descends over the horizon,
we can park on the edge of the earth and
observe as stars and city lights converge.
Undistinguishable; sky and earth a long awaited
reunion.
A metamorphosis of the divine and the sublime.

Baby, let's live our life on the roads;
let's be ahead of the time;
leaving young, living wild.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

I'm waiting in the night
by the red of the light.
I've been left out
under the touch of the rain;
like a photograph
my memories are fading.
Colors dripping,
down the streets streaming;
washed out words are pouring,
down the sewer dripping.

I'm monochromatic,
blind to a world of sheep.
At a standstill,
open arms ready to accept
the sky or ground;
rejecting and forsaking
rejected and forsaken.
A fool in a journey of redemption.

I've only got one bar
on my phone and there's only
one more between here and home.
Ten dollars in my pocket may as well
be a thousand. Like a penny
in the fusebox, I could make it last
until the lights go out. There's a cowboy
band playing. A wooden Indian
by the door. I don't think he listens
to their stories anymore. He's quiet
on the subject. He's quite an object
of curiosity. Instead of two-stepping
all night long, maybe I should take
that Indian home. Use the last bar
to call Coleen. Tell her to put a ***
of cowboy coffee on. We'll tell stories
of our own. Sing songs in the old way
about better days when we were young.

She opens a window
and hopes for the sky
to fall in from outside
and it's tailwind bring

her the moon and the clouds
lined with silver, a crowd
of the finest of stars
and a spare pair of wings..