| The lightning climbing up the walls
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| The finger drawings on the glass
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| The map of those who used to live here
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| Until The Gilded Hand was broken
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| Often there’s a voice in my sleeping mind
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| The words inside my skull at night
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| But once I wake, I cannot read them
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| My bloody hands remain a question mark
|
| Sifting through the hiccups of time
|
| We’ll hide in the bones of the city
|
| The engines sing along with their cries
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| This song, it spells disaster
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| But it’s buried beneath the laughter
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| The words that fall from out their mouths
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| Can change in your hands and split the skin
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| So I will keep myself apart
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| From shining eyes and privileged boredom
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| The thing that I’ve learned from unusual blood
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| Is never touch a person’s comfort
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| The voice of change is often heard
|
| But fear itself has come to visit
|
| Sifting through the hiccups of time
|
| We’ll hide in the bones of the city
|
| The engines sing along with their cries
|
| This song, it spells disaster
|
| But we drown it out with laughter
|
| And our eyes
|
| They were always pointed at the sky looking for an answer
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| And our hands
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| They were stained in black and grey busy solving problems
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| And our backs all bear the load of all the things we’ll never know until it
|
| breaks us
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| And in the comfort of the Earth we will not wonder what we’re worth
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| No, we will sleep soundly
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| All along the Road to Nowhere |