The Sky Was Yellow And The Sun

Crippled But Free, I Was Blind All The Time I Was Learning To See.

Let My Inspiration Flow, In Token Lines Suggesting Rhythm, That Will Not Forsake Me, Till My Tale Is Told And Done.

Sit Back Picture Yourself Swooping Up A Shell Of Purple With Foam Crests Of Crystal Drops Soft Nigh They Fall Unto The Sea Of Morning Creep-very-softly Mist...and Then Sort Of Cascade Tinkley-bell Like (must I Take You By The Hand, Every So Slowly Type) And Then Conglomerate Suddenly Into A Peal Of Silver Vibrant Uncomprehendingly, Blood Singingly, Joyously Resoundingbells....by My Faith If This Be Insanity, Then For The Love Of God Permit Me To Remain Insane.

Wake Up To Find Out That You Are The Eyes Of The World, But The Heart Has Its Beaches, Its Homeland, And Thoughts Of Its Own. Wake Now, Discover That You Are The Song That The Morning Brings, But The Heart Has Its Seasons Its Evenings, And Songs Of Its Own

Every Song Falls Short Of The Glory Of What A Song Could Be. That's Why The Urge Is There To Start Again And Yet Again. Often It's The Fault Of Rhyme. I've Discovered A Hundred Times That There Just Aren't Enough Rhymes To Say What I Wanted To Say, So I Said Something Else Instead. Sometimes It Was A Better Thing, But The Thing I Meant To Say Went Unsaid. So There's An Opening For Another Song.