| I can’t see myself in the books I read these days
|
| Used to be I saw myself on every single page
|
| 'Twas nice to know my life had been lived before
|
| But I can’t see myself in the books that I read anymore
|
| Tired eyes wander
|
| Into their own sight
|
| Leaving a body unscripted
|
| And forced to improvised
|
| By being so much as I was
|
| I was getting so far away
|
| From anything that I had ever known
|
| And everyone and night had fallen
|
| I could no longer find my way, Lord
|
| And the moon came up high
|
| And I said take me home
|
| To anyone as bright as day
|
| But the fact of the sun comes
|
| The fiction of the moon
|
| The moon can make a false love feel true
|
| It can make me still wanting you
|
| Oh, the moon
|
| I watched that old girl leave her stable tonight
|
| And neither she nor I could look away
|
| As she drew a map for me on the back of the masterplan
|
| And you know I had to laugh
|
| And I wished that I was like that moon on her path
|
| Or that train on her track
|
| 'Cause when I looked out back
|
| The road was pulling out so soft, fast and black
|
| You know it takes what it gives back
|
| And I’ve got your book in my lap |