bohemian trance

Fancy don't live here no more,
he caught a flight to L.A.
used every last penny he had
to pay his way

he thinks the transient life
is all the rage
won't need any money
when he gets there
just a wing and a prayer

he's an artist
artisans have a way of painting
there own realitys'
somewhere from nowhere
nowhere from somewhere
Paints a tunnel entrance on the side of a mountain
and drives through it to the other side

"come home son"

"not till his work is done"

“come home son”

“not till he finishes this run”

“come home son”

“the race has only begun”

don't fret over him
you see...
he's finally free

a tab o' butter in the gutter
pizza crust covered in dust
dumpster diving
but he's surviving

weary of the world
sickened by the greed
idealistic, disillusioned
feeding from discarded crumbs
embracing a dream
stifling a scream

his lyrics
his music
his paint
his poems
his dance
his musings
his pain
his tears

bleed expression
he can't contain
no one sees
no one feels
no one hears
when asked why?
what is the meaning?
what is your purpose?
what do you hope to achieve?

there is no answer
only a hunger
a passion
a calling...
new found Faith
a work of art in progress

he's at a loss to understand
or explain
yet he carries on
confident he knows
all he needs to
with a sense
that tells him
whatsoever is being asked of him
pales in comparison
to what has already been done
And what has been given

in the "flight of fancy"
at last learning
at last living
well on the way
to the eventual
merciful
crash-landing

What we've always taken for granted

Hard earned

Struggled...

And fought for

Beyond borders

So blissfully idealistic and naive

Too young to realize...

FREEDOM...

Has never been "free"