(Hi. I don't need any of that)
Your eyes, diamonds rough as a fist -- chipped away, buried beneath a crooked smile. Signifying lines, signifying time. It would be kind to see your little face again. A light burns in you but I hope you know. A better door than you are a window. A light burns in you but I hope you know. The way that it makes me feel is so classic rock -- a light burns in you but I hope you know.
The shades of the house are drawn and pale like the plants arrested without sun and your ghosts can't leave, so here's our address remember that it's up to you to sing. A light burns in you but I hope you know. A better door than you are a window a light burns in you but I hope you know. The way that it makes me feel is so classic rock -- and a light burns in you but I hope know -- and a light burns in you but this you already know.
Carrying the Gold
Sickness and health, but it's been mostly sick this year. Please turn off the light and try to get some sleep. Carrying the gold.
Bottled up, yes, it's true and it runs in my blood like a killer's knife through your clothes and the name will die with me. Carrying the gold.
I lie back down before the alarm starts the day and hold onto your broken frame. Carrying the gold.
Tomorrow is Blessed
Light and sound: all the coals awaken from their smolder. All the intricate designs now drifting smoke. Everybody gone and left old Absalom. Crass somehow that we can live in ash and ruin with the common dread of singing I still remember.
Action as opposed to yearning. Jumping with open arms through hoops on your lawn.
They found all the messages you left on our train in the course of a lemon-floated long malaise. Overt the message that you chose to paint in moving light inside our home. Tomorrow is blessed, we will rest on nimbus clouds.
So let's make wishes on the moon concomitant to walking away from our tattered lineage. Action as opposed to yearning. All the likenesses have left you feet on the floor and head on the ground, caterwauling hallelujah, so let's make wishes on the moon now.
I know that it's hard to care about the world when all you want to do is just stay in bed and watch the shadows on the wall grow all day long (hey hey). And the village fiddler never takes you there, maudlin to a point with an angel overhead. Pirates on dry land, never listening (hey hey).
Your tigers of passion beat the horses of instruction almost every day. The bones of the forgotten eat paintings of the spring almost every day. Your tigers of passion beat the horses of instruction almost every day. But waiting for the tornado can bring down anything, bring down anything.
The days are constellations waiting for a harvest, but there's no way you can reach them, no clouds that you can stand on, though they gather ‘round your head like pillows under night (hey hey). So you hum an old tune learned from your grandma in those days in the kitchen when the sun would crawl across the floor waiting for nothing but to be home (hey hey). Your tigers of passion… bones eat paintings…