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He awakes |
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And puts his pride into his pockets |
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And decides to walk into the day |
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He does his strange dances |
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For strangers he meets along the way |
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Sometimes it sets him free to be his own imagining |
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A thing no small town would allow |
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Sometimes it leaves him stumbling on the street |
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He takes an empty bow |
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I live in a city that has no past |
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I live in a city where dreams fade fast |
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I live in an over ripe fruit |
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Where passions call out and then fall mute |
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Where sweetness struggles to be heard |
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Where shame can die without a word |
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Purpose paints her face for her race |
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Through the smoke of hidden holes and greasy fires |
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She has no breath to waste on the taste |
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Of knowing other people's desires |
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It seems there is no fear in her |
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A conspirator with the arrogance of brick and steel |
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Too many people to wonder about |
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She's off to make another deal |
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I live in a city where stories are cast |
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I live in a city where illusion grows vast |
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I live on an island so bold |
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Its fiction captures us in its hold |
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Its voices somehow sing the same song |
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With furtive words we sing along |
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And there's a man whose face is a pile of brittle wood |
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And his smile just needs one spark |
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To set it aflame |
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And there's a woman who walks with her boy bandaged up |
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Her face is a cup holding all his hurts |
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And I see a puffed up man in a three-piece pout |
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Not a doubt in his mind that the city is his |
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But what if all these faces were to welcome us in? |
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What a place this would be what a place to live in |
