Sing In My Waste Land
I walk forever cement city streets,
searching for truth in shadows of the Light.
I flap in vain my broken angel wings,
dreaming of the day that I can take flight.
I want to fly beyond glass walls of heaven
and sing in my waste land of nameless souls.
I sit behind the locked door of my room,
staring at the glowing box of false dreams.
I walked mountain trails when I was a boy,
planting fruit seeds by wild snow-sparkling streams.
I want to fly beyond empire of money
and sing in my waste land of signless roads.
I ran away from gangs of angry boys,
walking home from school every afternoon.
I cannot escape the Big Boss in charge,
unless I live in a cave on the moon.
I want to fly beyond their jurisdiction
and sing in my waste land of restless winds.
I crown myself Fool King of Fairyland,
singing spells on street corners of each town.
I sing for Eleanor of Aquitaine,
honored to play role of her jesting clown.
I want to fly beyond Garden of Eden
and sing in my waste land of star-eyed pools.
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