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In your blue room sit with a candle lit |
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On a charcoal bed of dreams you carry on |
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Though the streets are hot you can still a lot |
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But you can walk out and forget there isn't time to take a loan |
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But you're now into something that you were immune to before |
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And there wasn't a sign you just fell into line at the door |
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And the question sands in the palms of hands |
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Of the wretches picking pieces of their minds up off the floor |
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On the mantel place there is still a trace |
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Of the plastic face you hung your moments on |
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And the sudden scare of a landing there on the sea |
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That you don't care to even see when you're alone |
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But the day is too short and you can't find support in the sun |
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You had thought you'd decide to just stick out the ride as it comes |
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But the emptiness of a thing that's less than what it was thought to be |
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Has left you wondering just how much more |
