Lying at the gates of winter
Talking to myself
I can smell a hint of you
Your quietest, your deepest self
I’m waiting in the car at night
Dark rolling country, in my next REM
The shock of silence overwhelms
The sex, the seed, the stems

The Walking Dream
The birth of stars that seem to talk to you in your sleep
The Walking Dream
The fall is so steep
Fall down
Let’s get up

Lying in the sundry summer
Sunday nights, dreading work
I can taste the pool of you
Skinny dip, loneliness shirk
You’ll scream “Shark!”, but in the dark
I feel the water rise
On a lark, I go under
Blind, I close my eyes

The Walking Dream
The birth of stars that seem to talk to you in your sleep
The Walking Dream
The fall is so steep
Fall down
Let’s get up

Copyright 2004 Beau Phillips