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Full of this stuff, just waiting for a sign. |
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Watching the years I am watching?the flowers die. |
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The spider within holding on by string, |
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Still I'm all alone hearing this circus type thing. |
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So ask what I think, I'll tell you I think that it's frightening. |
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All of these places to dance and yet we are still. |
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A weightless improbable force has come to enlighten, |
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But why should we listen if there's nothing in it to kill? |
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Often I'm hearing these questions my friend. |
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You're never quite hearing the sounds, |
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But thanks for the voices. |
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These sweet little voices, they follow me all the way down. |
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It seems that we dream hard for peaches and cream and their sweetness. |
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If we are what we eat then why are we not sweet ourselves? |
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And where's this Arcadian gateway once loved by Pandora? |
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Did she bring our demise or be true to the nature of self? |
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Often I'm seeing by goat-footed friend |
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And often I see him in you |
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Disguised as a song he campaigns for the end. |
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But a few were reserved for the truth. |
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A few were reserved for the truth. |
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I'm finding no comforting words from the priest, But I've found that each season can sing. |
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If she'd survived beyond winter she might've seen the spring, |
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To see that we all make this circus type thing. |
