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You spread your rusty fingers across the ledge. |
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You get your grip and peer down over the edge. |
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You watch the city move and breathe and migrate. |
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You're not apart of it. You're broken now, like us. |
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I turn and brush the birds from off my shoulders. |
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And cross side-walks with an earful of white noise. |
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You sit up on your perch for the rest of the night. |
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You watch the moon and hope the damn thing crumbles. |
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You count the stars reflecting in the windows. |
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And then you realize just how minimal you are. |
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I stop and watch the airplanes leave the city. |
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And I silently wish I was on one. |
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You sit down slow and watch yourself in the glass. |
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You reach inside and tear out all your cables. |
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Snakes of smoke are dripping from your fingers. |
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You have no body, just a cage to hold your parts. |
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I have no answers; I'm rambling. |
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I was never one to solve whatever has gone wrong. |
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You lie down on the roof and watch the sun rise. |
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Its burning fingers rummage through your insides. |
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And for a moment you feel like you're alive. |
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And then it's gone, so you get up. |
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Up, up, baby. There's blood on the sidewalks of this town. |
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They've got us on the ropes. But we don't have to take it lying down anymore. |
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Our hands aren't tied now. |
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Down, down, baby. Down in the in the center of this town. |
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They've got 'em buried deep. |
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Under layers of concrete are the bones of our past. |
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(Oh no, no) |
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We'll leave on the evening train. |
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It won't be long, but it feels that way. |
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But home never meant very much to us anyway. |
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So we convince ourselves that we're better off gone. |
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And maybe we're right. |
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And we collapse on a road. |
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On an old dirt road, where the sun doesn't look like such a waste. |
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And we fall asleep, under leaves of a couple of them nearby tress. |
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And we never wake again. |
