Wandering Gypsy Soul

The train cars and the glowing neon signs
Are substituted friends to the foreigner
Sitting and listening to the intrusive crosswalk chime
When suddenly the last two years begin to blur
Not believing 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 just watering my fears
When all that time I was just 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
And I’ll dive 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 can always shed 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 these steps of my trajectory
Through every rise and fall out there I’ll carry you with me
Through all the starts and endings I will carry you with me

For I’m a man with the wandering gypsy soul
Burning within me are the spirits of Kerouac and Guthrie
In avoidance of the atmospheres where roots will tend to grow
Towards the open endless highway 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
Even Kerouac had to stop for gas every now and then
But when the tank is full and I start to feel the pull I’ll meet you further on up the road
When the pull comes I’ll be further 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
I’ll pull the blanket up higher and hope tomorrow’s a little 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
May all your paths be clean towards the summit of your dreams
From the man with the wandering gypsy soul
From the man with the…