Where the Wind Sleeps

At the stroke of midnight I'm awake and writing like the breeze.
The balcony's a symphony of sound.
Beer lights burn like signal fires across a battlefield.
The highway's distant, concrete crawl phones home, but just gets me.
Here along the rooftops you can plainly see my friends are tomcats on the prowl,
'cause their story's familiar to me.

Lifetimes of senseless victories and glorious defeats
Fill these country hillside graves where town pretends to be.
Way up on the writer's porch the tapping of the keys
To give them what they dearly want but never what they need.

Way down here where the wind sleeps.