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I Prune trees until they bleed, |
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cut until I look well achieved |
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I braid a mask of leaves |
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Fight to find the balance in between |
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the expectations and conditions, |
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melt two blades into one |
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There is line, a mark where mist turns to clouds |
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When I find it I'll place a cut, split my spine in half |
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There is a hook on which a rope to me is tied |
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When I find it I'll cut myself loose. |
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For seven years in spheres of glass, aiming reflections in to dust, we've emptied our trust |
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Will a kid dare to trust his visions if no one tells him that he can, undrape jewels in his eyes. |
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There is line, a mark where mist turns to clouds |
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When I find it I'll place a cut, split my spine in half |
|
There is a hook on which a rope to me is tied |
|
When I find it I'll cut myself loose |
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We're cold, lone and deceitful to our kind, |
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estranged wild dogs left behind, hunting reflections of the sun. |
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I Prune trees until they bleed, |
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cut until I look well achieved |
|
I braid a mask of leaves |
