| But if I want them too will they speak to me soon
|
| in a language ripe for my listening?
|
| When the harsh sun breaks in your stained glass eyes
|
| the refracted light keeps glistening.
|
| A drapery of clashing fabrics in every corner of your room. |
| They hung like lace
|
| on the whitewashed face of the walls that are begging you to move and leave the
|
| things that hold a history as if they’re present in your will. |
| A brand new
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| place a few miles away but I just wasn’t sure I was staying still.
|
| But if you choose too it’s a honest move
|
| and I guess that it makes for no deferences.
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| There’s a gleam of blue from a cold night’s moon.
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| Just a touch too soon, Two Deliverances.
|
| On an empty panel floor I lie here for communion just waiting for one more but
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| in the quiet empty hours of my afternoon what am I supposed to do?
|
| But if I want them too will they come to me soon? |
| Will they fluctuate between
|
| midnight and past noon? |
| Was kind of banking on a future that’d be involving you
|
| but I couldn’t ask this of you.
|
| In this young night’s sky there are pinhole lights.
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| Find the shape of a harp and an arrowhead.
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| Do I hear your tunes or acknowledge wounds
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| that I got from rubbing elbows with a sharpened edge?
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| But if I choose this too does it count as my move?
|
| I can’t drop my history just to become new.
|
| Now swimming through the nothingness and the absolute
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| but I couldn’t ask this of you. |