A quiet street at night
is often more a sight
than the brightest firelight
cast by patriots
and
pyros.

Heart and hospital
all is lost in the silence
where serenity is something one can reach out and touch
like a painting
that you don't want to disturb.

Trees of suburbia hum white
and flash yellow
and flicker when bothered by the winged parasites of summer.

Oh, the horizon can't be seen
it can't be seen.
It's there,
and it shouldn't be,
but at least it can't be seen,
and this street goes on forever and ever
and is as vast as the silence.

Darkness with a chill
like a frosted glass set aside for celebration.
Mimosa in the morning
Nature at night
oh,
if only it lasted
forever

if only it lasted
forever

But calls at home say never
pushed with the weight of a feather
and streets circle back
to where you left from
in the first place
no matter how much is to be explored.

If it were as much a mystery
as night made it to be,
why,
I don't think I'd ever go back home.
Dead-end streets mean bike trails,
and guard dogs mean going farther
and passing cars mean get scarce
and lights mean turn away
turn away
because the goal is at the end
of the never-ending road.

I almost wish my feet would take me
where I really want to go,
but you know…

when it's 2am
everyone's playing a game they don't want to win