They say the dead never speak, maybe I don’t listen
To the sweet nothings in the crazy world I live in
I’m in a flush grey Seattle on Monday as the sun rays chase the shadows up hills
With a child-like sentiment, catch me if you can it’s a fight flight rhetoric
Dancing on command till the night’s light’s setting in
Fancy what you have, it’s the zeitgeist yet again
In hindsight to find my cause of death I chased my dreams then I lost my breath – get it?
Am I clever with the words? Does it really really matter when you’re entering a hearse?
Look, I’m alone in a coma from the methadone searching for a saint that was frozen in a bed of snow
And then I’ll excavate the set of bones, easy come, easy go, better late than never though
Here we go again, we can call it my defeat when my tongue is in my cheek for a solid ninety weeks
Swallow pride and grief, that is all I really had, just so I can understand that is all that I can be
And from a birdseye view, sixteen shots and I’ll earn my dues
Sixteen shots and the world I knew is a resting plot for the kerbside blues
I see a city trapped in amber full of all the joy and the misery that’s captured
Bright lights emitting in a pattern by the fireflies like a symphony of lanterns…