The Humid Press Of Days

What did it mean to fly

A tremor in your soul

To resist the dull existence of gravity

Upward bound, trees fly

Two meadows and a fields

And the border is a simple line of hills

Ah, didja come uncoiled

Between heavens and the earth

Whispered nonsense into your radio

Now afternoons you seldom move

Grounded to a little bit of earth

And, after all, time barely crawls

Unoccupied, between each breath it sticks

What did it mean to fly

When you were bound to the earth

A release from the humid press of days

Now afternoons it hardly moves

I wonder how you make it through each day

And, after all, time barely crawls

Unoccupied, between each breath it sticks

What did it mean to fly

A tremor in your soul

To resist the dull existence of gravity

What did it mean to you

An early chat with death

To pull your body for a moment from your soul


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