cutting circles in clouds with your fingertips the only way to pass the time on rolling hills you can almost pick the planes clear out the sky, no doves in sight like ink blots with a hint of white or sun spots that fade alike days like these grow old with vines that hang from the sky wings give motivation some wings rust, in the morning it sprinkles on your face now I must wake up, said i must wake up or erroneous is this place becoming clearer than blue sky that reflects from the surface of my and I'll bet on the oncoming planes they litter the lonely with fields of broken glass rain turn a trail to dust to sideswipe those plains and the forest is tapestry for some at the ends of yesterdays and it's only a question of how far must we go before our latter day joints erode paving the way for travelers just below the roads