Directive
Many believe that the mind is but a playground
Recklessly scurrying about its aisles
Toying with totem poles and symbols of the heart
Aware of the labyrinth, but not of the scars
CHORUS:
How can we believe when we
categorize everything haphazardly?
How can we be free when we
meander down the stream of historicity?
Many believe that the mind is but a market
bartering with thoughts and profiting from speech
In fact it is a silo, a home to ideas, dear
the spoils and the riches of an attentive ear
CHORUS:
How can we be young when we
hide in the coves from illusive trees?
How can we be sated when we
give up all the fruit for infinity?
BRIDGE:
Let sleeping dogs lie, let people be people
Let misfits try, let steep hills be steep hills
Let us dance to the glottal stops of some piper’s dream
but like the body, when you stuff it, it will grow to be grotesque
Concludes in private ridicule at public behest
as the peeling paint collects on the floor of a mind at rest
Silence cannot be seen, the dimensions of the mind shall not be screened
So we dance to the glottal stops of a piper’s dream
feeding our minds from buckets of cream
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