There is something in my eyes
Where tragedy lies, cold and blue
She sits alone in her room
Rolling twine on the floor
Thinking of you

It cannot please, nor fit to ignore
The present problem at hand
The floorboards are sandy and stained brown
Your skin was chalky white
Too weak to sit or stand

You have eyes of a bull, clouded and glassy
We are strangers in our minds
I see you live a dead man’s life
Alive but not living
Seeking ghosts of a different kind

I am a simple rag doll in a barley field
You are an ox of silent depression
There is nothing here inside my hands
For me to give you
Except a blue veined, pulsing confession

I long to tell you stories of Oracles
Break your solid wall of smooth granite
A strong wall you build for all to see
Where I run my hands down
And point out the stars and planets