A collage of roadways and street names,
and orange cones and license plates.
And dinner talks and family prayers,
and late night TV and blank stares.
Embroidered pillows float on the pond.
Once you get going, it's hard to stop.
Like the man who's unintentionally,
digging his own grave.
He gets deeper and deeper into
his conscience which even his mistress can't save.
In fact, that's why she tore apart
the living room, it looked fake and she felt,
that she was inside a fictional tomb,
That kept closing in;
in thought she was dead, too.
And that just proves that you can get
buried alive, you can't dig your way out,
no you cannot survive.
It's the guilt that creates
the pressure for you.
When you've dug your way to China,
you can ask, "Who knew?"