The Wheatfields East of Eden
The Lines
Take one look outside these lines,
where there is much to see.
All the beauty I have seen,
will pass me by as though a dream,
and here I stay, still locked away,
a prisoner of the lines.
And here I’ve been, for my whole life,
walking between the lines at night.
I’ve poured my mind into the lines,
and here I’m trapped, for you to see:
the beauty as revealed to me.
Here I’ll stay, still locked away,
inside the lines, not free.
Outside the lines are reasons but,
to fill the lines again.
And when I saw the world go by,
as lightning by me in the sky,
I had to grab my pen;
the beauty of the world, for me,
is a poem to begin.
Outside the lines, I live, and lie,
though while inside I do not die.
I walk under a poor description,
of the evening sky.
With nothing poetic in my way,
just one more of the endless days—
subtracted from our time to stay;
those lazy days, they go their way,
say, “hey,” and then say, “bye.”
They pass us by and hear our cry;
though never stop, nor wonder why.
In silence arrive, and in disguise,
say goodbyes and go their way.
“Hey,” they say, the eye that sees,
who translates our tragedies—
he who dictates, with a pen,
our glories, failures, virtues, sin—
reads it once or twice and then,
a second better draft begins.
Outside the lines I think of when,
and where I last lay down my pen,
to write away the eve;
then at night, by pale lamp light,
another verse of song I write.
Another song to sing, on page,
when outside no words convey,
how I was trapped in lines this way.
Outside the lines I look, to see,
the ever incredulous skeptical me–
a man whose been awake too long,
bags underneath his eyes have drawn,
the words on paper turn to song.
He writes before a court,
with a faceless judge and jury.
Perhaps he this believes;
he calculates the variables,
of approaching destinies.
And where he’ll be and what he’ll see,
and how he’ll write it down, to please,
those who can dismiss with ease,
all of his sublime melodies.
When he writes, it’s not for him,
no, not for him alone;
it is for those who stand around,
whose once long frown,
can with his verse turn upside down,
and be gladdened by his song.
Out of place, and out of time,
walks the man between the lines,
whose gold is never found in mines,
but in corridors of mind.
And at his core, his lonely own,
he only wants to sing a song.
To sing a song, and merry make,
those who from a poem might take,
joy and bliss, and sorrow too,
when they get trapped in these lines too.
A heartbeat skipped, I blinked, so my,
dreams are trapped inside the lines;
dreams are rendered lines again,
and all the words I wander in,
far off lands, fall into sand,
like Pompeii and Babylon,
the lines keep falling,
on and on.
where there is much to see.
All the beauty I have seen,
will pass me by as though a dream,
and here I stay, still locked away,
a prisoner of the lines.
And here I’ve been, for my whole life,
walking between the lines at night.
I’ve poured my mind into the lines,
and here I’m trapped, for you to see:
the beauty as revealed to me.
Here I’ll stay, still locked away,
inside the lines, not free.
Outside the lines are reasons but,
to fill the lines again.
And when I saw the world go by,
as lightning by me in the sky,
I had to grab my pen;
the beauty of the world, for me,
is a poem to begin.
Outside the lines, I live, and lie,
though while inside I do not die.
I walk under a poor description,
of the evening sky.
With nothing poetic in my way,
just one more of the endless days—
subtracted from our time to stay;
those lazy days, they go their way,
say, “hey,” and then say, “bye.”
They pass us by and hear our cry;
though never stop, nor wonder why.
In silence arrive, and in disguise,
say goodbyes and go their way.
“Hey,” they say, the eye that sees,
who translates our tragedies—
he who dictates, with a pen,
our glories, failures, virtues, sin—
reads it once or twice and then,
a second better draft begins.
Outside the lines I think of when,
and where I last lay down my pen,
to write away the eve;
then at night, by pale lamp light,
another verse of song I write.
Another song to sing, on page,
when outside no words convey,
how I was trapped in lines this way.
Outside the lines I look, to see,
the ever incredulous skeptical me–
a man whose been awake too long,
bags underneath his eyes have drawn,
the words on paper turn to song.
He writes before a court,
with a faceless judge and jury.
Perhaps he this believes;
he calculates the variables,
of approaching destinies.
And where he’ll be and what he’ll see,
and how he’ll write it down, to please,
those who can dismiss with ease,
all of his sublime melodies.
When he writes, it’s not for him,
no, not for him alone;
it is for those who stand around,
whose once long frown,
can with his verse turn upside down,
and be gladdened by his song.
Out of place, and out of time,
walks the man between the lines,
whose gold is never found in mines,
but in corridors of mind.
And at his core, his lonely own,
he only wants to sing a song.
To sing a song, and merry make,
those who from a poem might take,
joy and bliss, and sorrow too,
when they get trapped in these lines too.
A heartbeat skipped, I blinked, so my,
dreams are trapped inside the lines;
dreams are rendered lines again,
and all the words I wander in,
far off lands, fall into sand,
like Pompeii and Babylon,
the lines keep falling,
on and on.