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High in the Sandias Mountains, the world like the planet Mars. |
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Craters and canyons and holy matrimony beneath a ceiling of stars. |
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And then the rooftop wraps around because the sky is just the ground |
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and nothing falls between the cracks. |
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It makes me laugh to think this worried me back there; |
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I see it now, the moving clouds, the heavy air. |
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But this is no painter who slouches before you, my sketches are simple and crude. |
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Would one with such telling hands be found in such a pose? |
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The facts I know do not necessitate a truth. |
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Fly down that American highway, the wind like a wrecking ball. |
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Suddenly, your planet feels small |
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and those tall tales on their false scales mean nothing at all. |
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But you recited them so well, the way the syntax rose and fell |
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and held together the pieces of that tattered yarn you wear today. |
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I like the way it brings out the anguish in your eyes. |
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It matches mine in such a way it's a sick mistake to label it divine. |
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There's someone out there who would kill to hold you now. |
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You're not alone unless you have your doubts. |
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We're on a sinking boat. |
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We're living just to get out alive but we should be singing with the sun in our eyes. |
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You'll never be alone unless you have your doubts. |
