The chords are more vibrant now and fear vomits from dead eyes
Appearing to look through mist, out and into the night
roaring treads these rutted footpaths, my tear turning pink
Watching the sky turn to mould and toffee staining their lips
Like a baby in a paper bag, this cocktailed womb of hate
Dusk heavens are here but i see them coming
the drunks are awake

11/18/2004

Posted on 11/18/2004
Copyright © 2024 Sam Roberts