Between the Bridges
Between the Bridges


Infinite is the city
Though it seems laid out and very rigid
When driving over bridges
Either the Brooklyn, Williams burg or Manhattan
All seems very organized
Yet when you stop
To walk along
The inner core
It all looks vastly different

Sometimes exotic sometimes almost psychotic
Sometimes quiet lazy hazy dull drums
Which turn into a dream like sequence
If you close your eyes
And dream to the sounds of the traffic
Instead of falling asleep to the television talking
About what lays outside each city window
Between the vintage bridges lays a labyrinth of a landscape
Between the vintage bridges lays a labyrinth of a landscape