Backwards clocks sing fractured chimes
through this promised land.
Nothing steady holds me now
I fight myself to stand.
Stories fed us crooked truths
then nailed us to the cross.
Still we lift our battered heads,
still search for what was lost.
They told us: seek salvation.
But I was built to bend the mold.
Fortune tellers cast their cards
on dreams gone stiff and cold.
Maybe hope’s a grown-up wish,
a trick that doesn’t stick.
Every road still brands the skin
with scabs we choose to pick.
I wasted all my younger years
just waiting in the line.
They preached about the promised land
then left us all behind.