The Humid Press Of Days

What did it mean to fly A tremor in your soul To resist the dull existence of gravity Upward bound, trees fly Two meadows and a fields And the border is a simple line of hills Ah, didja come uncoiled Between heavens and the earth Whispered nonsense into your radio Now afternoons you seldom move Grounded to a little bit of earth And, after all, time barely crawls Unoccupied, between each breath it sticks What did it mean to fly When you were bound to the earth A release from the humid press of days Now afternoons it hardly moves I wonder how you make it through each day And, after all, time barely crawls Unoccupied, between each breath it sticks What did it mean to fly A tremor in your soul To resist the dull existence of gravity What did it mean to you An early chat with death To pull your body for a moment from your soul