weak
|
at the best of times
|
there's not much else for us to be
|
cross country smiles cutting through time zones
|
like thieves in the distance holding ransom in the cold
|
an incision loud and mathematical
|
|
spin
|
every letter's in disarray
|
fall over words stretched out in the way
|
looking for the truth
|
|
mine is the one with the rust and the chest pain
|
stole through the window like the wind through the back lane
|
can't you here the sirens?
|
we're standing right beside them
|
|
tear up the sidewalk between ambivalence and fear
|
ask the dead man," why do you always sleep out here?"
|
"I'm not frozen, i'm only standing very still
|
getting old
|
I'm only standing very still
|
|
mine is the one with the rust and the chest pain
|
stole through the window like the wind through the back lane
|
can't you here the sirens?
|
we're standing right beside them
|
|
-----------------
|
Weak
|
| Greg MacPherson |
