The Man At The Table

I am the man at the table
I wear an old suit without labels
My old guitar bothers the waiter
My coins in neat piles on the table
My eyes on the yellow page
The same words I’ve read for ages
About the mellow man
Who sat down when everyone ran

Many have called me unstable
They say I am lost in a fable
Ambition makes such blurry pictures
It gnaws away at your convictions
Now the only things I really need
Are the sun, a place to sit, a tree
The only thing I really want
Is silence before the hunt
I’m many tiny bits
That don’t always seem to fit
Tied together by a thread
A small breeze can tear me to shreds

I’m nowhere, I’m home
I’m nowhere home
I’m nowhere, I’m home

I walk out and still have no label
My coins in the hand of the waiter
You didn’t even notice I faded
‘Cause I was just a man at a table