You wrote yourself in camouflage to see your eyes spelled out just right and you fired your last cannon ball-point pen. Across your parchment battlefield so toiled in rhyme and meter and your war of words began to meet its Hell today.
Hold your words against the sun. It's like high-strung poets on a porcelain string. Tied to one another, always searching for something.
You'll throw your weapons down again and see the ink spilled through the page and you'll surrender your lasts thoughts to the machine again.
Hold your words against the sun. It's like high-strung poets on a porcelain string. Tied to one another, always searching for something.
Let the sun disguise the mystery of words describing misery. Face reflecting light beneath the thoughts I thought I'd never.
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