Analog Park

In the garden, in the park, on a bench, I sit.

A newspaper floats on the breeze of this late summer.

It is coming my way,

I patiently wait.

I see the sign, it's on the road

and I think it's crazy

In the garden, of the park, on a bench, I watch.

The sandy feet of the children.

Pearls of sweat run across their beautiful faces.

You see the sign, it's on the road

but I think you're crazy

You are, you are the sign

of my unrelief

As I easily get inner contact with myself,

I notice distress grabbing for my throat.

It is time to reach out.

To find something that isn't there,

You see the signs, they're on the road

but I think it's crazy

You are, you are the sign

of my unrelief