parallelism
05/15/06, 10:59 PM
Sleepwalk
So march in circles; go picketing. We've all prayed for the same sad fate; the short, sweet-faced one that nobody ever forgets. It's a quick and easy birth, a proper life and the same damned place to die.
We beg for the Hand to come down from the sky; a large fist from the blue to compliment the Sun. When it opens up, we'll walk right on. Fingernails and all, we'll live off the Land; excavate the Dirt and the Grit. Somebody once told me it's possible to live forever; to lie down between fingerprints, nurturing our homes as they nurture our souls.
But is it possible to trust?
It once crushed us into dirt; nobody survived. The Hand turned over, our rooftops caved in. Our books became hats for tired summertime scalps. Insomnia set in; the Living Dead walked our streets, and they were us.
We trekked on and on, following the crescent moon as it outlined our Horizon. We just kept walking until finally, we fell asleep. Now we've called it Lost and we've called it Forgotten, but it seems to me that we're still drinking it up; chasing it down with rusty needles and dull knives. Our haunted streets are just horizontal lines, plagued by faulty hope and faulty design.
We're still asleep.
And every line that we walk is just another excuse that we try.
So march in circles; go picketing. We've all prayed for the same sad fate; the short, sweet-faced one that nobody ever forgets. It's a quick and easy birth, a proper life and the same damned place to die.
We beg for the Hand to come down from the sky; a large fist from the blue to compliment the Sun. When it opens up, we'll walk right on. Fingernails and all, we'll live off the Land; excavate the Dirt and the Grit. Somebody once told me it's possible to live forever; to lie down between fingerprints, nurturing our homes as they nurture our souls.
But is it possible to trust?
It once crushed us into dirt; nobody survived. The Hand turned over, our rooftops caved in. Our books became hats for tired summertime scalps. Insomnia set in; the Living Dead walked our streets, and they were us.
We trekked on and on, following the crescent moon as it outlined our Horizon. We just kept walking until finally, we fell asleep. Now we've called it Lost and we've called it Forgotten, but it seems to me that we're still drinking it up; chasing it down with rusty needles and dull knives. Our haunted streets are just horizontal lines, plagued by faulty hope and faulty design.
We're still asleep.
And every line that we walk is just another excuse that we try.