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In dreams like these become the seeds |
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with which we place the light beneath |
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the ground has not the breath to seek |
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why now deep creek choose breeze horse fleas |
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Their arms are mean and jokes discrete |
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could seem of mangos in the trees |
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high in the air, the blue turns green, |
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season too late, tea and whiskey, |
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Towards vans that were not ever seen |
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and this I'd have nothing written |
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the dreams like these that once have been, |
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they'll never cease to be again, |
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When we're gone, will you remember me? |
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will they want to know what we used to see? |
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can these chains maintain the writing on the wall? |
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or like me, will these too one day fall? |
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Or will they crumble to the sea, |
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while creatures that I've never seen, |
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come to be how they will be, |
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exactly how they want to be. |
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Up and then, |
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down down down |
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up and then, |
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down down down |
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up and then, |
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down down down |
