It hasn't been the right kind of night for some time. The night when the cold doesn't freeze you and metaphorical icicles don't drop from your fingernails in a futile attempt to join their brethren on the floor. Where the sun still shines even though it's been down for hours and a pounding heart doesn't make your ears bleed in time to the music of silver bells. Those nights were the wind whispers things that you want to hear instead of taunts and jeers than never really meant more than the pat on the back you were expecting last Sunday.
There's no answers in the gravel as it's melted under the rain, slosh where words and numbers used to speak to the world, now a poisonous mud pie with a blue welly boot stuck half way through it, as there is somewhere a limping child with a watery face. There's no answers in the sky because we still perceive it to be blue when it's actually red. What do we know, right? We're only humans pretending to be human.
There's too many questions to be answered and too many unidentified tracks where there should be so much more. The moon is blind and the clouds hide everything until the light breaks through, salvation, three wise townies bringing gifts of child support, chart Cd's and a bottle of Jack while the shepherds are sheep who dress in tracksuits and wear gold hoops without any idea of their meaning. We are a culture going to hell, but at least it's a good ride. Here's the keys to the Chevy, love, let's beat the crowds.
There's no answers in the gravel as it's melted under the rain, slosh where words and numbers used to speak to the world, now a poisonous mud pie with a blue welly boot stuck half way through it, as there is somewhere a limping child with a watery face. There's no answers in the sky because we still perceive it to be blue when it's actually red. What do we know, right? We're only humans pretending to be human.
There's too many questions to be answered and too many unidentified tracks where there should be so much more. The moon is blind and the clouds hide everything until the light breaks through, salvation, three wise townies bringing gifts of child support, chart Cd's and a bottle of Jack while the shepherds are sheep who dress in tracksuits and wear gold hoops without any idea of their meaning. We are a culture going to hell, but at least it's a good ride. Here's the keys to the Chevy, love, let's beat the crowds.
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