The morning starts to wake, the sun is having a break, hiding behind
the clouds.
Summer and travel, train and plane, car in the rain.
Sleepless, and sometimes more, in a tent, or a caravan, awake until the dancing feet get sore.
Rhythms turn into music, by all human power, instrumentals, and
some vocals, easy noises bring in some clear choices.
People don't want to leave, just be in the real.
The rhythm is where the heart is, no one can put it behind bars.
the clouds.
Summer and travel, train and plane, car in the rain.
Sleepless, and sometimes more, in a tent, or a caravan, awake until the dancing feet get sore.
Rhythms turn into music, by all human power, instrumentals, and
some vocals, easy noises bring in some clear choices.
People don't want to leave, just be in the real.
The rhythm is where the heart is, no one can put it behind bars.
very beautifully written. I espec love the last line. It's true that no one can put it behind bars unless you allow them to.
ReplyDeleteplease post more often! I love reading your writing and looking at the pics you post!
xxo
http://fashioncontagious.blogspot.com/