Sunday night rhythms

I had a dream that the symmetry
And these painted scenes and these colours schemes
Would inspire a sense of sympathy
And return things to what they used to be

The strange thing is, that this inspiration
Had too little time to reach maturation
When fifty six minutes was nothing more
Than fleeting smoke at a long-dead celebration

I've packed it all up in these small cardboard cases
In newspaper wrapping, and into compact spaces
Taped up the corners and gone through the paces
To hide all the hurt that appears on our faces

We're a canyon apart... but a cloud close together
And little is left but to discuss the weather
We once lived as if we were birds of a feather
But only I remain, a lone bird in the heather

I guess that it's time that you assert that you're freed
From the shackles of us, and the burdens, and the need
You have all you want, so please, take the lead
And take on all the feathers of the bird that you see.

On I will shuffle, slowly I'll go...
What the journey will look like, it's too soon to know.
What I hope for at the end of this ebb and this flow
Is that you find some beauty in the scars that I show.

T