inside my own cocoon

it was about an hour after midnight

when i saw a woman with flowers in her hair

she asked me if i had some money to spare

well, my pockets were empty and torn

and i knew i was looking forlorn

but i gave her what i could share

it wasn't much but when you're down and out

there isn't much left but questioning and feelings of self-doubt

so i went my way

without much more to say

but suddenly i heard her asking me with a voice pure as gold

she wanted to know if i had ever been bought and sold?

if i was a carpetbagger or a military man on his leave?

was i an honest man or was something hanging up my sleeve?

and what exactly did i know and what did i believe?

well, sitting down to reflect on what she just said

i heard the murmur of ocean waves 

i saw the tombstones of the dead

happy children playing on their graves

and i didn't know which way to go

when you get to the point where you realize

there's really no point to all the lies

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon,

like a deep inhale

with no well-trodden trail

to follow:

substantial with no unnecessary hollow,

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon.