Honey, you're my darling,
but do you know
what it is I'm starting?

Honey, you're my baby,
but do you know
what it is I'm saying?

Honey, you're a doozy,
but do you know
what it is I'm doing?

Honey, you're not ready,
and you don't know
where it is I'm heading.

I've sailed the seas of sorrow
and scaled the cliffs of fear.
I've lazed around this meadow
in every season of the year.

It has got me wondering:
Where would I like to go?
'Cause my soul, it feels like wandering
where my footsteps do not know.

In life I feel like loving
In love I feel like lying.
In truth I feel like moving,
'cause if I'm moving I'm not dying.

Since before this time's beginning
we've been rolling down a road.
When it feels like ending
something adds another load.

Whether you're whispering discretely
or screaming loud and bold,
an angel's choir will greet ye
before palaces of gold.

In life I feel like loving
In love I feel like lying.
In truth I feel like moving,
'cause if I'm moving I'm not dying.

So raise your voice in proclamation,
raise your voice for all to hear.
Sing your songs in declaration
to the time that must appear.

Don't be fearful of the future,
don't grieve the ancient pasts.
Fix love up with sutures
and pray that stitching lasts.

All these slip-stream silk canopies unfurling out at last keep the interchanging threads tangled in the past. It doesn't matter what I lose in the search to find my Self amid cacophonous raucousness and distractions from consciousness. When the flowers fully bloom, bearing fruit too ripe to wait, and a secondary sight sends me right into the zone, I'll walk the path the ancients tread and follow my voice back home. Sing me a song in medicine tongues, as serpents' illusions hiss from my lungs. Knowing how the angels' trumpets' wail and mourn the loss of prosperity hidden on the shore I'll listen, still reeling from the stars in my head, to the bliss that is waiting for "mine" to lie dead.

Om shanti tra-la-lace,
empty head fulla space.

Mismatched mouth and mind,
squawking every word ya find.

Buncha penny-sized pupils --
spun-out "gypsies" popping pills.

When ya finally say what ya mean,
I'll be where I was with no in between.

Om shanti tra-la-lo
pack yer patchouli and go.

It's a vague sense of hopelessness,
like I'll never have my fun.
I'm not the only one that feels like this --
I can't be the only one.

She asked:
You know what's unfair?

I replied:
The sound of your voice and the smell of your hair.

If they should ask, after some uncertainty,
respond resonating a cadence of tranquility:
"Because I am young and life demands it of me."