i came to the forkin the road, which led me tothe spoon in the grass
in the distant fogfamiliar ideaslose their clarity
a weathered back door has better stories to tell than the polished front
every morningis different, even thoughwe treat them the same
we try to make sense of our world, but keep getting lousy instructions
in realityi only know what i’ve seenand i question that
we can capture timefor a moment, but neverforce it to stand still
the language we useto describe ourselves changeshow we see ourselves
a single lilacby itself is delicatein force, breathtaking
any barrierswe build to lock others outalso lock us in
uptown jack 