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What shall we tell them? |
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A honeymoon brief as a walk in the park |
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What shall we tell them when they ask? |
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And they'll ask |
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Could you not see another way out? |
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Was the place without sun? |
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Was it furnished in black? |
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With the ache of the gas-oven |
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there at your path |
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A death-angel paces in boredom and waits |
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It shrieks from dark corners undermining your faith |
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What shall we tell them when they ask? |
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And they will ask |
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Could you not see another way out? |
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Where were the cape and the coast-line? |
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The wonder-kid's sunshine? |
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Your sanity shattered |
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in climbing the walls |
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Wet towels at the floor-lines |
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stuffed under the doors |
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And the beating of powder-black wings left you blind |
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The last days of December are the loneliest kind |
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In the exit you made |
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there was no pause for thought |
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Cause the lies that I told |
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were the lies that you bought |
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There was no place to find you, |
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no you to be found |
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In the margins of books you were reading |
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there were stages to grieving that won't let you down |
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Where was the coast-line? |
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The wonder-kid's sunshine? |
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Under northern skies |
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anonymous and free |
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your night-fisherman pushes |
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a boat out to sea |
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You'll surely meet shores |
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though his faith is unsound |
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There are stages to grieving that won't let you down |
