| High in the Sandias Mountains, the world like the face of Mars
|
| Craters and canyons and holy matrimony beneath a ceiling of stars
|
| And then the rooftop wraps around because the sky is just the ground
|
| And nothing falls between the cracks
|
| It makes me laugh to think this worried me back there;
|
| I see it now, the moving clouds, the heavy air
|
| But this is no painter who slouches before you, my sketches are simple and crude
|
| Would one with such telling hands be found in such a pose?
|
| The facts I know do not necessitate a truth
|
| Fly down that American highway, the wind like a wrecking ball
|
| Suddenly, your planet feels small
|
| And those tall tales on their false scales mean nothing at all
|
| But you recited them so well, the way the syntax rose and fell
|
| And held together the pieces of that tattered yarn you wear today
|
| I like the way it brings out the anguish in your eyes
|
| It matches mine in such a way it’s a sick mistake to label it divine
|
| There’s someone out there who would kill to hold you now
|
| You’re not alone unless you have your doubts
|
| We’re on a sinking boat
|
| We’re living just to get out alive but we should be singing with the sun in our
|
| eyes
|
| You’ll never be alone unless you have your doubts |