The things I say to you, for you,
Or hear you say, grow,
Live a life of their own.
So I write them to my muse.
Thus grow the vines of conversation.
It's an awkward situation.
The muse
Is so much bigger than you.
It is no thing,
Or many in combination,
Imagination's spoors.
But you, the real friend,
Mean so much more.
Or hear you say, grow,
Live a life of their own.
So I write them to my muse.
Thus grow the vines of conversation.
It's an awkward situation.
The muse
Is so much bigger than you.
It is no thing,
Or many in combination,
Imagination's spoors.
But you, the real friend,
Mean so much more.
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