What is the end of your day?
Do you fade into nighttime or toil away?

I believe I was put here to worry and wait.
We fail to make up for what we cannot name.

Are you true to whatever you do?
Or are you scared （are you scared）
to bring light to your own misery?

You're so wrapped up in your history
that I never see you here.
Do you think of me （think of me）
when you're painting mirrors by moonlight?

I'll hold every clock hand to midnight.
We've all got things to fear.

What is the end of your week?
Some wait for romance to play out like a scheme.

Others wake Sunday and need to believe
that their part in the system
is what makes them free.

But I'm just in need of some truth.
I know it's here （know its here）,
but there are so many distractions.

And when you're blinded by every refraction
you can't focus on the light.

You'll drown in fear （drown in fear）,
just remember we are all scared, too.
Don't neglect the ground we're all bared to;
your roots will give you life.

I'm lost in the aisles,
crossing the lines left behind
in some gold-leafed illumination.

I guess I'm better left to temptation,
bared to the ground.
A fool, no ascetic, I wander around.

I spew the hermetic and never expound,
still it feels like I'm homeward bound.
And what is one you to do
when the working day catches up with you,
a thirsty seed （a thirsty seed）?
I will lend a hand if you need:
the running water to your olive tree.

What is the end of your day?
Are you slave to those mirrors
your form fills with shame?
I meant to free you from those frames
but their gleaming has stolen us away.