If I were to write a song today,
What would I say?
Thirty, forty, fifty years on
and still dreaming,
still writing wistful words that wander
hither and yon.
Too tired to dream? Never.
Too lazy to follow through?
I don’t know if lazy is the word
as much as scared – frightened
not of my shadow
as of the responsibility to create a thing
that casts a shadow.
For fear of burning bright,
How many are content to sit in the dark
and stay quiet,
in the comfort of uneasy silence.
Perhaps this will be the day that I fly,
This will be the day that I fly …