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there's a middle aged woman |
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she's bundled in scarves, sweaters and jackets to blind her flaws from her soul |
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so she sees herself as a young child |
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and from every day to every night she ambulates from 5 to 9 |
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reflecting on her misfortune and her pain |
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well i think, near and far, when shall i be that old woman covering up my face |
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and quietly contemplating |
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so i pour myself a drink til my head forms into streetlights |
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they usually turn yellow for me to drive a little slower tonight |
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and from all these roads that look like puzzles as they twist from right to left |
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and only seem to have that beginning and an end |
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so just tell yourself that someday you'll be a (?) |
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a mother to everything that needs |
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and all raise your hands 'cause there's no faith that'll save our deaths |
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no we're just all withering like shrubs in the winter |
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just look back as a child |
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where those flowers turned into a tiara and earth pronouned you into a queen |
