When ya thought I was flying
I was falling instead and
hitting rock bottom

it stops hurting after a mile or two
when I think that I'm falling through
cotton wool which I pull over my eyes.

Then to scrape oneself off the floor
jump on the skylights and jump off
once more,
whee
look at me
but I'm falling and calling to God and his fakir
make me a
parachute,
( which sounded cute when I wrote it )

Salvation will come in the form of a gun
or a man of the cloth or both
' bovvered?'
nah
what will be will be the death of me
or the life

I'm not crying now
not falling
not flying
how
did that happen?

age writes one page on
the face and the lines run
into each other

I'm just minding my own
keeping it real
walking back home.