Come, take me home, or at least somewhere that isn't here.
Sing songs of hope, of melancholic beauty ringing clear,
those that sound out a tone to attempt acoustic therapy
to reach a halted heart hanging heavy off the mezzanine
like a man in a field waiting for the wind to whisk him up,
spiral to heaven, promise endless nectar from a golden cup,
waiting for the sky to erupt into dizzy dreams of summer love,
spun out on perfection of the angel that he's dreaming of;
like a boat out at sea waiting for the shining surf surging on,
rising up to greet the cherubim who flirts with dawn
unafraid of endless rivers of idle talk and passersby
for everything's enchanted by the company of azure eyes.
Come, take me home, or at least somewhere I've never been.
Whisper tales of honesty, of shattered hearts and broken skin.