...And the dead will join us running thru the night
While T.V. cameras roll and catch it all on tape.
...And the tales they tell are truths that you can't fight,
But you'll try and waste your energy till you can't take it anymore
Can't fake it anymore
Because you're one of them.
I've got my soul in my pocket,
And I'm heading for the graveyard
To dig a hole for it.
It's the safest place that I can find.
It's not quite dead,
But it needs a place to rest and be protected.
...And the bleached bones will reconnect to pull new skin over themselves.
(Recreated skeletons with dark suits and ties thrown over.)
...And the words they speak are soundless, dry emissions
That reach our heads as dust; little by little.
Speculating mist clouds envelope our bodies;
Particles diffusing thru our pores,
So that the bullshit around us can be equally
Inside of us.
These theories pull us towards needs of acceptance,
Make us people dying, trying to break into secret concentric social circles;
Like round pegs in square holes.
...And the time can never be recovered
Like weather balloons and satellites.
...And 'tis harder even to cover over deeds done
During wasted time, because our faces are like lined paper;
Sectioned and perfectly legible.
Trained eyes scan reality-burned skin,
Revealing more about ourselves than we allow mouths
To admit. |
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