I bury myself in the leaves to sleep
|
The sun so strong and rage so deep
|
I keep waking to find I've been dreaming again
|
And the sound of the ocean is not a plane
|
And far away they talk about me
|
In newspaper columns they write about me
|
round dinner tables and cocktail parties
|
I'm a heroine and a tragic figure
|
I'm a heroine as I'm lying here
|
Beneath my sky
|
|
And sometimes
|
Sometimes I cry
|
Sometimes
|
Sometimes I wonder
|
Why we're always coming down
|
And why we need to touch the ground
|
And why I didn't keep on heading
|
right on up to heaven
|
I miss my sky
|
|
Here from below the clouds are shadows
|
Not the golden mountains I used to fly through
|
Here from below the sky?s a painting
|
In a child's room with the future waiting
|
But not for me
|
|
I look up at the birds flying overhead
|
My sentinel's true but the signals dead
|
It's been 500 days of hope and sorrow
|
500 nights with no tomorrow
|
And the poetry and the best of me
|
And the heart and the spirit and the sex of me
|
All fell into the azure sea
|
In the tailspin with the last of me
|
And my wings, and my song, all that I knew is dead and gone
|
I'm weak and tired but my will is strong
|
And my hope lives on, my hope lives onS
|
|
But sometimes
|
Sometimes I cry
|
Sometimes
|
Sometimes I wonder
|
Why we're always coming down
|
Why we need to touch the ground
|
Why I didn't keep on heading
|
Right on up to heaven
|
I miss my sky
|
I miss my sky
|
|
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|
I Miss My Sky (Amelia Earhart's Last Days)
|
| Heather Nova |
