| the moon is beating on this town
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| on the silent streets and all around
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| its crescent’s growing larger every time i close my eyes
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| the burning lamplights on main street
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| on this deserted tuesday night
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| are calling for a sign of life to consume their fire
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| as the girl sits alone on a bench
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| she’s waiting for a ride
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| or a moment of clarity
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| or perhaps she is not waiting for anything at all
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| and she’s content to watch the streetlights and the moon… on the concrete
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| she’s been there for as long as i’ve seen, maybe longer,
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| maybe she’s always been there as a living statue
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| she commerates a saint who had fallen some years past
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| and she has drifted from the spotlight
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| and is nothing more than a shadow of a shadow
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| and her face, it is carved with a purpose
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| nobody knows this destiny, not even this girl
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| who sits alone on her bench under the moon and the streetlights
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| and stares at something in the distance, motionless
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| even the wind is asleep at this hour
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| the clouds are laying low on the horizon upon pillows of more clouds
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| and the soft orange glow of the sleeping sky casts down on the sleeping earth
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| and she will rise when the morning sun consumes the fog
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| and the soft orange glow becomes the fallen saint
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| hidden by the shadow of a shadow
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| burnt by the spotlight
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| invisible
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| gone |