There's poetry in everything,
the tree's outside my window,
the sombre Sunday view.

There's motion running through the leaves
and everything that I conceive,
everything inside my mind
plays fast forward
then rewind.

The light that grace's my dark room
is something fresh
something new.
Sitting looking at the road
early morning,
warming cold.
Warming thoughts inside my head,
maybe I should be in bed,
dreaming of some place to shine,
but then I wake and realize,
all that's real
all that's mine.
The worries and the joys of life,
those worries aren't hard to find.