The soft piano tears of a bar, the somber lights dancing amongst dark suits and teary hands
The presence of loneliness, the cusp of joy; always lingering on the neon angels
How so many are lost, yet are in the same place
How they are so alone, yet they are around one another

The restrooms a bleak smile, as someone goes to approach
Hands held in prayer, on tables of wood as old as the crucifix of Christ
As the evening battles the sun, to smother it into the abyss
Bodies with heat, yet no one seems to be living

And if lord knows best, that are lives are chaotic
Then this place is the calm in the storm
But not a peaceful calm, an encumbering calm
Where the screams stop, but the echoes still ring loudly

With lights dim as assassinated blood, the fog of confusion and doubt
Fills the space with a ghost, that haunts all within it
But lord knows, that wishes want to be granted
That shooting stars want to be real