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This cocoon, caught in Vesuvius' shadow |
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Only the ashes remain |
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And I waited there for you |
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Why couldn't you? |
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Here we lie waiting for something to startle |
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To shake us from gravity's pull |
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And so the sleeping hours are through |
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What can we do? |
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The tainted election, the low dirty war |
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It happened before you came to |
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But this is solution and this is amends |
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The joke always tends to come true |
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But there on your windowsill |
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Over the unmoving platoon |
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Written in paperback, the key to the quarterback's room |
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Under waning moon |
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This quiet serves only to hide you |
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Provide you |
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What I knew, it'd come back to you |
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Take this palm, follow the lines here are written |
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And script out the rest of your life |
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And feel your fingers falling slack and all folding back |
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The sorry conclusion, the hole in the sky |
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Command what is tried, what is true |
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But without solution, with feet on the ground |
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It won't make a sound 'til you're through |
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So loosen your shoulder blades |
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This is your hour to make due |
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Because there on the timberline |
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Deep cold November shines through |
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Soft and absolute |
