Every dream is different and every dream's the same. Truth seems to have been de-valued and honesty appears to have gone out of fashion. There was a time that I would have fought. Those days are behind me.
Now, without romance and truth, with my beloved rock'n'roll a faint memory, I search for reasons. Reasons to fight the good fight. Reasons to get up in the morning.
In those last days Jamaica's tired, sweet eyes told me that she was done. Eyes like those look back at me every morning in the mirror. I see those eyes with every homeless person who approaches me at a traffic light with his little cardboard sign. I'm haunted by that look with each final call for a dog in the pound.
For good measure I check my heart. Love's good but hope's low.