Morning walk around man made water.
Reflecting on words she’d spoken.
Glimmering light of a smile.
Gotta be ten feet quacking, flapping, floating in time.
Feathers weather the weather,
hanging, catch dreams together.
They ride on into the sky.
Grado, listening. Wires crossed, missing it.
Morning talks about a day she’ll find.
Echoing past words he’d spoken.
Whispering after a while.
Gotta be four heels clicking, ticking, tapping in time.
Gold goals, old souls with worn soles
dancing through dreams, so they’re told.
They never trace any lines.
Best not to stop the dreamers.
Best to go on with your life.
Best to worry about your own precious world,
dreamers are gonna be fine.
this is your life chuck johnson 