| They’re tired, they’re very, very tired
|
| Eyes worn, screeching with each blink
|
| Their mouths have spoke complete
|
| Still the films tick and say that smoke
|
| Doesn’t even touch them and leave
|
| It just washes past the sandpaper lightning
|
| That’s filter disappears
|
| They are tired, their eyelids are swollen
|
| They cannot tell what’s behind their body
|
| Leaving their body when they exhale
|
| Their lips are swollen, their lips speaks
|
| Well of reasonable hopes
|
| Swollen to the point of splitting
|
| They’ve stopped running their lips hours and days ago
|
| They are tired
|
| They’re tired, they’re very, very tired
|
| Eyes worn, screeching with each blink
|
| Their mouths have spoke complete
|
| Still the films tick and say that smoke
|
| Doesn’t even touch as it goes in
|
| It just washes past the sandpaper lightning
|
| That’s filter disappears
|
| They are tired, their eyelids are swollen
|
| They cannot tell us what’s leaving
|
| What’s leaving their bodies
|
| Perhaps maybe they’re leaving the corpse
|
| The corpse maybe is a victim of the course
|
| The corpse so haunted and sprained
|
| Is twisted in places
|
| It’s not their first, it’s not ours many days |