| Are these my eyes or just wet stones?
|
| Is that the swelling of the sea against the shore
|
| Or has the world reformed from inside-out?
|
| Did we climb to high, my dear?
|
| Are the cliffs the only place you feel alive?
|
| We cut our hands and kissed the wind
|
| While skipping stones and shedding skin
|
| We made a god and laid our shaking bodies at her feet
|
| Then stumbled naked through the door
|
| And stumbled out of bed in the morning light
|
| But too early to be seen by prophets cursing in the streets
|
| And beggars preaching peace in faithful calm and solidarity
|
| We resurrected power lines
|
| And let them drip blue-green sparks upon our lips
|
| Like little kids with snowflakes on the tips of their tongues
|
| We found a pond covered in ice
|
| And stoked a flame and called it good
|
| Before the Illuminati buried us alive
|
| But oh my God you’ve got me now
|
| Stuttered heart, empty soul
|
| God damn the way you’re moving through my mind
|
| The way your hair outlines the world
|
| God bless the way you touch my thighs
|
| To warn me a storm is brewing beneath your ribs
|
| That rain will soon follow
|
| Rain drops upon your face make you no one that I’ve ever known
|
| I see the rock on which we fell
|
| It’s getting bigger every day we spend away from here
|
| But I no longer want to pull it out
|
| Or walk the roads above just to play it safe
|
| We never really did
|
| There’s beauty in a cut, a broken body on a summer cot
|
| Your skinny legs and ruddy skin
|
| Like knotted twine are twisted between my limbs
|
| Fall into me
|
| But oh my God, you’ve got me now
|
| Stuttered heart, empty soul
|
| God damn the way you’re moving through my mind
|
| The way your hair outlines the world
|
| God bless the way you touch my thighs
|
| To warn me a storm is brewing beneath your ribs
|
| That rain will soon follow
|
| I’ve been thinking about letting you know
|
| I’ve been feeling this for some time
|
| And just forgot to let you know
|
| That the storm from which we hid has been hiding underneath my shirt
|
| I swear it’s you, not me
|
| It’s so hard for me to be here with you
|
| With all the things that I’ve been keeping inside
|
| And I can’t go on pretending that I’m not thinking about leaving you
|
| We watch the sun rise from a knotted hill or field of old machines
|
| I can’t recall
|
| But rusted metal spires reached towards the sky
|
| Like preachers wives' contemplating death in bliss of an angry night
|
| We fell further into each other there
|
| So full of dusk as is the won’t of the poorly assembled class
|
| All stone hands and sinewy flesh
|
| So worn from digging up the dead
|
| Line us up
|
| We’re shaking free
|
| Paint our sins
|
| We’re making waves in forgetful seas
|
| Line us up
|
| We’re shaking free
|
| Paint our sins
|
| We’re making waves in forgetful seas |