Gently float around a little ball in space,
trying to have an impact.
Inspire a little taste.
Up there, watching the planets.
Down here, right about where I am.
I’ve never done some things that I can.
How could it be
that the littlest part is the most important piece?
She’s somewhere, drinking her warm wine,
never cared about the color of the sky.
I swear she used to send me poetry.
Like her life was poetry,
or it was all a dream.
Why then, not slow down a bit and win the race?
Steady hearts will move mountains,
knowing all anger is waste.
Beneath, feeling the footprints
above tiptoeing on me.
I’ve always wondered if they walked free.
She’d send me poetry,
and if it winds up that this all a dream,
then I don’t wanna wake up. I don’t wanna leave.
this is your life chuck johnson 