To flee the flock and feed our friends with all our calm complacency,

To bleed our hope, give up the ghost and sail a silent, stalking sea.

Unless of course you cannot dream the way our tired eyes do dream,

You will never feel our hands or feel my heartbeat deep inside of me.

The beating drum, a metronome, and all the silky, saintly homes,

Contagious rifts between ourselves that hide behind our faceless drones.

If rhythm drips just like rain drops, perhaps our love ticks just like tocks,

And clocks do breathe and move at night just as kids do more than stock.

And highway songs are played for all and then our records are displayed,

In glasshouse stores and flatland whores will stalk the night to get your play.

The game is grand and gold is all but in our chest to melt our fears,

Glamorized and realized then sold to all who shed our tears.

Uncanny curtains cover creed and spoiled bangles spread their seed,

And all we do is whisper vespertine through all our broken teeth.

So rebuild my lungs from the ground up if you want to hear my song go on,

Or let me exhale one last time to stir up all the time we've lost.