Fold

Tapping emotion, flowing from the muse,
Paying for the trouble, for the things we cannot use,
The artist lays his weary head, mind set upon the turn of the world,
The rotation, angulation from a set of dreary words.

Rise in the evening, Sleep by the day,
I twist in the promise of a man’s well-earned pay,
Forget what you asked for, forget all the best,
But, lay to rest your mind until I see you again.

I work for my money, the money would work for me,
I don’t want a crown or a beggar man’s pride,
Rest for the wicked, Toil for the Righteous,
Robbing your heart away, one of these days.

Brought back to the sweat of the dark,
The wisps of dreams spilling over the edge,
I can’t quite reach, no I can’t find my way
My way home, forgetting my pledge.

Fold up the day, Spend your time downtown,
Rushing to the sound of a million thirsty notes,
I tell you son, You’ve got to trust in yourself,
We’ve got to stand, return, find the grace that floats.