If I could change one day in my past,
It'd be the day my boots beat the path,
So I wonder, how it could be,
If my gypsy soul never touched my feet.

I had a lady and she loved me so,
But the road you know it owns my soul,
So I wonder, how it i could be,
If my gypsy soul never touched my feet.

Dont fall in love with us travelin' kids
We'll break your heart as we leave with the wind,
So I wonder, how it could be,
If I could love a little longer than the season of spring.

Maybe if I was a better man,
But now I sit here wonderin' if I can go on
Yea I gatta keep on

And you should know I'm the king of bones
I'll rip out your spin so I can stand on my own.
Once I'm in, I'll tear you apart.
Leave you naked, bruised up, cut up, and exposed in the dark.

I've got my cigarettes I've got my ****,
All to keep my feelings under me,
In the mirror I see empty eyes,
So I roll myself a doobie and I look towards the sky.

The consequences of my wanderlust.
Are tears from the faces I have touched,
To my friends, Im sorry I'm gone,
I'm doin well.

If theres a welcome Ive over stayed it,
American dreams are overrated,
Sun sets up on mountain tops
thats where you're ganna find me.

I've got no money got no land to defend.
My journey will never come to an end.
Sun sets up on mountain tops
Thats where you ganna find me.

My gypsy soul and me.

Without a home,
And doomed to roam.

And instead of falling in love with people, I fell in love with hundred year old ponderosa trees and atoms unharmed by human breath

We watch the same insane
Alizarine Crimson hued refrains:
from our vista of earthbound horizons,
our differences untrue,
as we bleed red blood
and we are really in tune,
for directly in time we share so much more
that really is significant-
and, I point out-
that we are all the same.

I remember every metaphor I used for you.
It’s beautiful how quickly I ran out.
It was just so difficult to describe
a forest at the bottom of an ocean on fire.
You were soft,
I was quiet.
I remember every park bench,
every broken sidewalk,
every open sky.
It was so whole.
I remember breathing,
and the lovely amount of effort it required.
I hope you do too.
They say writers remember the important things;
I say they are liars.
I remember you wore a purple flannel
the first time I saw you,
even though it isn’t your favorite colour.
I remember that you take your coffee black,
and your tea with plenty of honey.
I remember the way your eyes changed colour
based on the weather,
and the way you looked at the sky,
like it was endless.
You were endless.
I remember everything you taught me.

They say writers remember the important things;
I remember you.

You pour your essence into
the inkpot of my soul and fill me so
that you can dip your quill in
and write the poetry of my life
on the canvas of skies.

I have received your secret message;
And sit by the courtyard
awaiting your blessed return
past the procession of stars
endlessly mourning the death of days.

Beloved friend, now it does not matter
whether the blessed dawn is nigh
or an oasis afar.