Hold you hand to the fire
|
And your eyes to the sky
|
They're just different shades of cellophane
|
Taped against the lights.
|
Faulty seams, drawn on plastic leaves
|
Past and future replicas
|
Past and future streams
|
Hold your head underwater
|
And try to see if you can breathe
|
Or if you drown in the shallow
|
depths of your belief
|
Because somewhere there must be a better place
|
Here you call to your neighbor
|
Only to see the track is set and they're
|
Walking back and forth in a circle
|
Saying the same words
|
Making their lips sync
|
In time with psalms on Sunday mornings
|
And all their hearts align with pale fire
|
So call the appear ambulance
|
To trace the paper cuts
|
Don't call on me, I'm a plastic reed
|
Bending in the feigning wind
|
Of artificial fields
|
Then you read the paper
|
Of a woman's early death
|
And note explaining why she left
|
It says:
|
"Somewhere there must be a better place
|
And it's marked with the fountain I've seen
|
glowing in my sleep."
|
And so you want to die and leave this shadow land behind
|
To eviscerate the truth from the lie
|
Because somewhere there must be a better place
|
but
|
What we thought was a fountain of life and light
|
turns out to be a
|
Mountain crushing down upon us, casting it's shadow
|
Closing the distance
|
between us and Babylon
|
And all our songs
|
are just the sounds of past and future days
|
Past of future names
|
Collapsing around us
|
|
-----------------
|
Past And Future Ruins
|
Thursday |