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the moon is beating on this town |
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on the silent streets and all around |
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its crescent's growing larger every time i close my eyes |
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the burning lamplights on main street |
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on this deserted tuesday night |
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are calling for a sign of life to consume their fire |
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as the girl sits alone on a bench |
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she's waiting for a ride |
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or a moment of clarity |
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or perhaps she is not waiting for anything at all |
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and she's content to watch the streetlights and the moon... on the concrete |
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she's been there for as long as i've seen, maybe longer, |
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maybe she's always been there as a living statue |
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she commerates a saint who had fallen some years past |
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and she has drifted from the spotlight |
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and is nothing more than a shadow of a shadow |
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and her face, it is carved with a purpose |
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nobody knows this destiny, not even this girl |
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who sits alone on her bench under the moon and the streetlights |
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and stares at something in the distance, motionless |
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even the wind is asleep at this hour |
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the clouds are laying low on the horizon upon pillows of more clouds |
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and the soft orange glow of the sleeping sky casts down on the sleeping earth |
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and she will rise when the morning sun consumes the fog |
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and the soft orange glow becomes the fallen saint |
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hidden by the shadow of a shadow |
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burnt by the spotlight |
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invisible |
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gone |