Bicycles

On the straight line, Bicycles without light, A satellite that starts where I lose my mind. A path made of grass, Your lips are like frozen glass. I walk barefoot, thoughts in flight, Blinded by beaches, hidden from sight, That I could only see beneath the bed at night. Enough with words now, Hang this from a tree, this light of winter's might. Just tell me what's on your mind, In this winter's light. A perfect Monday, Bicycles without hands, I've got a fresh painted crosswalk, brand new and grand. Want some mint ice cream? Windows seem like soggy paper, it seems. So much noise, the air feels thin, I've lost my compass, can't find my way in, The north I thought I had kept within. Enough with words now, Hang this from a tree, this light of winter's might. Just tell me what's on your mind, In this winter's light.