Hills of forest green where the mountains touch the sky, a dream come true, I'll live there til I die.

Faces come and faces go in circular rotation.But something yearns within to grow beyond infatuation.

Every thread of creation is held in position by still other strands of things living. In an earthly tapestry hung from the skyline of smoldering cities so gray and so vulgar, as not to be satisfied with their own negativity, but needing to touch all the living as well.

Each thread of life that you leave, will spin around your deeds and dictate your needs.

A long long time ago, I can still remember how that music use to make me smile.

They don't keep their promises in the promised land, its getting mighty hard to find an honest man.

As you sell your soul and sow your seeds, and you wound yourself and your loved ones bleed. And your habits grow and your conscience feeds, on all that you thought you should be.