I can fly with birds of sorrow,
I can fly with twisted wings.
I can fly like there’s no tomorrow,
I can sing like many springs.

People are but lonely birds,
Calling, calling, to be heard,
By other birds, by anyone,
Yet each bird keeps flying on.

Not ever pausing, to stop and hear
A lonely voice, calling dear,
The voices are lost, the voices are found
In the sound of the song, the song of the sound.

But I can fly on lonely waters
And stop to sing with lonely souls,
I can linger on the frontier,
And stop to sing, all alone.

I can soar above the clouds
Watching for someone worth singing with
Watching for someone in the crowds
A singer of songs, a legend, a myth.

But the sky is still grey, so bleak and dark,
Of blackness and unwanted things,
So I fly, as lonely as a lark,
Singing alone, on whispered wings.

Alcohol.
And train schedules.
A commuter's tightrope.
The last stop, Hpnotiq.
Where it rains sadness.
Where they're numb
To the moment of inertia.
Preferring instead to
Live on the rim.

Find me where the sun never sets
and the moon never fades.
Stars burn and nebulae swirl
time stops as light arcs
in a dimension of darkness.
Floating seas, frozen skies
within orbs of dust and cloud.

Adventure awaits,at the horizon
A cosmogyral sphere, gravitating.

𝓘𝓷𝓴 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓭,
𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓯𝓵𝓮𝓭
𝓘𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮:

𝓷𝓾𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂