Within the haven of holy,
This hallowed 3AM hour,
My spirit is of a child's
Splashing one puddle to the next.

The hands of the world are frozen:
All that is good, all that is bad,
All is locked to shackle decay
Of this moment of pristine time.

Open I heave the heavy gate
Of societal consciousness.
I blithely bound beyond the door,
Past the window of our prattle.

I skip and shout and sing and sigh.
Too soon, the day will have her way
And call me home away from play.
Oh! It's not my home to be...me.

My home is this among these trees:
See this face push the roof of leaves.
Study! I climb so very high;
The lazy sun lands on my cheeks.

My home is this broken stick of oak:
See how I swing on this mailbox.
Chingk! It screams, shamed of system'd seas;
It clangs of its machinations.

My home is this rippled old breeze:
Feel its gliding of your guiding.
Study! The wind whispers with wont;
Unbroken phrases are spoken.

She calls.

Those playthings fall from my spirit.
Unlocked inside society,
They talk of Michaelangelo.