eccentricities of an exotic soul

To live, is my dream, my one and only wish,

but alas, that dream the world won't furnish.

I live, not as lively as I'd ever would;

and I'm starting to wonder if I ever could.

I just want to open my wings and fly to the sky,

escape this madhouse, the lonely, misfit I.

I want to be exotic, without being told how,

I'd want to be anything but me, even a crow.

I want to sing, and I want to dance, and I want to run

across the fields of golden wheat, and on and on ...

I want to be, as no one has ever been.

I want to dream of a land so green ...

I want to cry, with my head held high,

and over the winds to whisper a sigh.

Eccentricities of an exotic soul,

too low for a dream, to high for a goal.

My past in one hand, my future in the other,

and with neither should I ever again bother,

so long as I can foresee the present

and look at myself and foretell what I've spent.

I just hope that for this madness I've not overpaid

though too grievous were what aside I've laid ...

Under the crescent moon to God I prayed,

and by all the rules I carefully played,

lest it all becomes nothing, all this that I did,

and all my belongings I lovingly hid,

in the darkest corner of all there is.

But the wicked winds would never cease.

And I discovered that I had to plow

ahead and ahead, even as a crow ...

Oh ... all those things I so wanted, all those dreams ...

And I've finally become unstitched at the seems ...

To live, is my dream, my one and only wish,

but alas, that dream the world won’t furnish.