he's addicted to strange, to the skin on our backs, to what's forever here, to what's not coming back. see the blood on his sheets, and the stains on the walls. see the sun in his room, and the way that he crawls. he's been brooding on this for a lifetime of fear, but as the sirens fall out of the songs in his ears, he's finding a method to live and let live, he's caught on to what other bad dreamers can give. and though the sky may be cold, on the ground it's still warm; he hears voices of angels and of the first stillborn.
and at the top of the stage, and at the back of his mind, he sees his future played out with the passage of time. and while bringing her roses or missing his chance, while sketching the wrinkles on his cracked idle hands, he sees glamour in sorrow in wasting away, with a family of wolves, counting glorious days. and when he can't see the sea on account of his curtain, he'll write a letter to thee, and his words will be perfect. and though the sky may be cold, on the ground it's still warm; he hears voices of angels and of the first stillborn.
and though he sleeps with a gun, and he speaks with a stutter, he keeps a written account of the scent of his mother. and his sick german shepherd that he keeps in his room brings him cheap thrills and diamonds, and driftwood harpoons. and his whole world is lost to the infinite sorrow of expecting the best from the turn to tomorrow. like a drunken romantic, like a fire on the prairie, he'll spend his life trying to curb the on ordinary. and though the sky may be cold, on the ground it's still warm; he hears voices of angels and of the first stillborn.
(c)2004