I feel something's always the same,
Between the seasons of life,
The same old stories of boys and girls,
Running through the dreams at night.
And there's always that difference,
Between what we think, and what
really is. Something strange and
acquiescent of a rainy day.
The sparkles they share, like
children in the park, or birds
floating through the air, It always
feels to short, and somehow still fair.
At night with eyelids closed,
yet still aware,
he can still rest in his lazy-boy chair.
