A Song Written This Cold Evenings
The train cars and the glowing neon signs
Are substituted friends to the foreigner
At night I sit and I listen to the intrusive crosswalk chime
And suddenly the last two years begin to blur
I did not believe an expansion on the highway of my ambition
Was conceivable in the illusion haze of last year
I clung to the monotony as a monk clings to religion
All the while I was watering my fears
And now I can conceptualize alternate realities
A flourishing metropolis of alternate directions
Down each of those paths there walk many me’s
Into pleasures, into problems, into knowledge and misconceptions
I’m motivated by the boundaries and the borders
I’m pushed forward by the can’ts and never wills
I’ll frivolously sidestep around what should be the proper order
An plummet into uncertainty strictly for the thrills
Because the heart is my compass and the mind becomes the map
The paths unwind endless and unknown
And even if my travels soon become my traps
I will always escape my bindings and return to those back home
Who accept my wayward wanderings and seldom question why
Journeys are conjoined to me as the skyline is to sky
And though you don’t walk within the steps of my trajectory
Through every rise and fall out there I’ll carry you with me
For I’m a man with a the wandering gypsy soul
I burn with the spirits of Kerouac and Guthrie
Never allowing a chance for those binding roots to grow
The open endless highway is where I most feel free
And sure I’ll turn off onto the shoulder to visit an old friend
The baggage of the wayward highwayman is at times a heavy load
And even Kerouac he had to stop for gas every now and then
But when the tank is full and I feel the pull I’ll meet you further on up the road
So tonight the train cars and the glowing neon signs
Are sad substitutes as friends for the foreigner
That crosswalk’s still singing out its damnable chime
And I pull the blanket up higher and hope tomorrow is much warmer
But before I slip off to dream about those spots I’ve never been
I think of those I love driving down highways of their own
So may all your paths be clear towards the summit of your dreams
From the man with the wandering gypsy soul
