the loneliness of the dreamer in a world where people value only that which is tangible and immediate to their own personal concerns. "what did you do all day?" the poetess is asked. but she has no answer her husband will understand, because all he can see is the supper that has been burned in an untended oven. he has no interest in reading the poem she has suffered through the day to write. And the men who walk the streets of dreams listen to the songs of ghosts while the velocity addicts on the freeway listen to state propaganda on the car radio.
lyrics
he knows the name of every angel
that circle 'round his head
he knows which ones have fallen
and he knows which ones havent fallen yet
but among the men he cannot tell
the profane from the proud
and he is lonely in the clouds
his head on fire with words
composed in times gone by
sung by many poets
who long ago had died
now the chattering from the podium
is naught but meaningless sound
and he is lonely in the clouds
there is a place in the heart of man
where no mans flag is raised
homesick for his home on high
he walks in a petrified daze
the lining up above the crest
conceals the place where poets rest
like a book in which the flowers are pressed
he is lonely
he is lonely in the clouds
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