| I heard a quiet voice say alright
|
| Good men stumble seven times
|
| And seven times again they rise
|
| But that’s his abacus amok
|
| 'Cause when the berth between what is and what’s deserved is this absurd
|
| I can’t be blamed for waking up expecting the worst
|
| There are no landings on this staircase
|
| No banisters to hold
|
| Just a steep and constant gradient that I keep falling from
|
| And a spine that’s getting softer 'til I can’t stand on my own
|
| Paper cranes from folding lives in time
|
| Paper cranes from folding lives in time
|
| I’m afraid I’ve spent the life I could have had in truth
|
| On cheaper thrills and placebo pills and quicker substitutes
|
| Hoping for scope of heart that’s massive
|
| Arms of welcome spread obtuse
|
| And a quiver full of shots to take to pull the cork of worry loose
|
| So I will wait for answers to rise out of the garden
|
| And believe the point will come to me in dreams
|
| And I won’t get up for anything
|
| I’ll sleep on the floor for weeks
|
| Ears pressed to the ground, just listening
|
| Paper cranes from folding lives in time |
| Paper cranes from folding lives in time
|
| Quiver full of shots to take
|
| Quiver full of shots to take
|
| Quiver full of shots to take
|
| Quiver full of shots to take
|
| Quiver full of shots to take
|
| Quiver full of shots to take
|
| Paper cranes from folding lives in time
|
| Paper cranes from folding lives in time |