| Half life
|
| She moves in a half life
|
| Imperfect
|
| From her place on the stairs
|
| Or sat in the backseat
|
| Sometimes you’re only a passenger
|
| In the time of your life
|
| And there’s snow on the mattress
|
| Blown in from the doorway
|
| It would take pack mules and provisions
|
| To get out alive
|
| There were concerts and car crashes
|
| There were kids she’d attended
|
| And discreet indiscretions
|
| For which she’d once made amends
|
| And there’s ice on the windshield
|
| And the wipers are wasted
|
| And the metal is flying
|
| Between her and her friends
|
| She’d abandoned them there
|
| In the hills of Appalachia
|
| She threw off the sandbags
|
| To lighten the load
|
| As soon as the sun rose
|
| The keys were in the ignition
|
| Following the tyre tracks
|
| Of the truck sanding the road
|
| There had to be drugs
|
| Running through the girl’s body
|
| There had to be drugs
|
| And they too had a name
|
| And the adrenalin rush
|
| Had left her exhausted
|
| When under the blue sky
|
| Nothing need be explained
|
| And there is no maker
|
| Just inexhaustible indifference
|
| And there’s comfort in that
|
| So you feel unafraid
|
| And the radio falls silent
|
| But for short bursts of static
|
| And she sleeps in a house
|
| That once too had a name |