I thought of writing you a song
|
in a tired repetition
|
of the words I meant to sing you all along
|
but never did.
|
|
I have some great appreciation
|
for lunar tides and roses
|
and my heart always intends to beat for you
|
but rarely does.
|
|
Well, here are fingers
|
that have reached for
|
anything they've wanted;
|
how often have they broken in the door?
|
And here are wings that I unfolded
|
at the bottom of an ocean
|
and wondered how I never left the floor.
|
|
I always gravitate toward comfort
|
but I'd kill for my convictions
|
so long as you don't ever make me move.
|
You always do.
|
|
I guess I'm sick of building bridges
|
over six inches of water
|
so when I can barely breathe for me,
|
will you?
|
|
-----------------
|
For Aegis
|
| After The Sirens |
