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Legs, they yearn themselves Up hills and into monasteries, Plagued by the dissipation of the evening light, The trees, they know how little it means To live as a man, They burn with dissipation of the evening And we've seen you in silks, In robes, in crowns, in power-suits, And we've seen you quoting scripts, God's will, divine rights, free market grants, And it's the bones of the world, And it's the chalk of the child, And it's the nature of regret And it's the grind of the drill, And it's the blood in the mud, And it's the nature of regret And it's the phlegm in the lungs, And it's the waste of the heart, And it's the nature of regret Sometimes, I leave my room And idle on buses and trains Pushing forth, devoid of meaning, Sometimes I plug myself Into retreats of tweets, Scrolling idly through the evening And it's the boots in the mud And it's the wire in the blood, And it's the myths we create For ourselves And it's the buildings hollowed out And it's the music without space And it's the drones circling around                                                               (Pakistani vistas and towns.) Trees, they know how insignificant It is to live as a man, For this, they'll burn, It is the nature of regret.
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Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Nature of Regret
Legs, they yearn themselves Up hills and into monasteries, Plagued by the dissipation of the evening light, The trees, they know how little it means To live as a man, They burn with dissipation of the evening And we've seen you in silks, In robes, in crowns, in power-suits, And we've seen you quoting scripts, God's will, divine rights, free market grants, And it's the bones of the world, And it's the chalk of the child, And it's the nature of regret And it's the grind of the drill, And it's the blood in the mud, And it's the nature of regret And it's the phlegm in the lungs, And it's the waste of the heart, And it's the nature of regret Sometimes, I leave my room And idle on buses and trains Pushing forth, devoid of meaning, Sometimes I plug myself Into retreats of tweets, Scrolling idly through the evening And it's the boots in the mud And it's the wire in the blood, And it's the myths we create For ourselves And it's the buildings hollowed out And it's the music without space And it's the drones circling around                                                               (Pakistani vistas and towns.) Trees, they know how insignificant It is to live as a man, For this, they'll burn, It is the nature of regret.
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victoria2f
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
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