| Refused to find the stars aligned
|
| In skies ripe for misleading;
|
| Reserve them my contempt
|
| And worlds behind their obscured lights
|
| Confidence depleted
|
| In hopes that you won’t find
|
| Us retreating
|
| The more I stalled
|
| Suburban sprawl kept creeping ever closer
|
| Forewarned though I had been
|
| A family’s ware
|
| So unprepared to cope with their confinement
|
| It reminded me of the times
|
| When I sit down and cry
|
| And hope you find someone who won’t hurt you
|
| As much as I know I do
|
| «Twenty-five years down the line,» Means a hundred changing seasons:
|
| Do you fear what might well pass?
|
| It subsides, like how the better part of me dies
|
| I’m missing what the days have been stealing
|
| Staring up at the ceiling
|
| Waging war on a feeling
|
| Half-asleep machinery, the city’s always driving;
|
| Shouldn’t you be too?
|
| Motown, don’t it hurt to know
|
| Your best days are behind you?
|
| But that midnight oil still burns
|
| It subsides, like how the better part of me dies
|
| I’m missing what the days have been stealing
|
| Staring up at the ceiling
|
| Waging war on a feeling
|
| Share an evening treat on a roadside near:
|
| I go to watch things disappear
|
| And we find time to wonder why things won’t feel right
|
| (Without escape the hostage waits)
|
| With drawn out wars on several fronts
|
| You might find one worth winning
|
| Do you fear what might well pass?
|
| It subsides, like how the better part of me dies
|
| I’m missing what the days have been stealing
|
| Staring up at the ceiling
|
| Waging war on a feeling
|
| Waging war on a feeling
|
| Waging war on a feeling |