Between a shirt and a skirt, everything shows, I’ll take you on a ride, to a place everyone knows. Between space and Earth, there’s a lace, a link between the Alcohol you drink, and the one that heals. Taken from a world of cold crystals, that inhale and exhale, like a cold that doesn’t let go. The high you feel is as lonely as your soul, somewhere, someone, who has no home. So let go, let it all float and lift, through the skies you fly, and way up there, you will be caught, some force unknown to man will grasp your hand. You may call it God, Buddha, or Allah, I call it home. A pillow with no fluff, a cloud made of smoke not vapor. Tranquilizers and rusted needles, H2O and O2 blend to make me- and you.
Flying So "High"
October 3, 2012