I will admit
A craving to travel,
While I suck and spit,
Rearranging
the gravel,
Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .
Till no stone
is left unturned,
There's no real chance
For a searching soul
To escape
from the trance
Of a goldfish bowl,
Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .
Glasshouse lessons
still unlearned,
It's a dream of mine
To swim a straight line,
An ocean,
a river
Or even a stream,
Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .
To be out of reach,
should the cat bore of cream . . .
2 comments:
still here reading this poem of yours and thinking, man ! what a sad song ...hope Gaïa listen to it because there is also an ocean of love between Bob's words
Thank you Une Nouille Martienne - perhaps escape is only a dream - how can we escape what we are - liberty - freedom from what, exactly?
Hmmmm . . .
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