My hands are always cold
with no one left to hold them.
My scars, a little too visible.
My memory, a little too lonesome.
Sitting under a bridge thinking,
about the trainspotting
pipe smokers.
Letting my mind carry me off
tryin' to catch some of that smolder
ed green
that burns in my bronchioles.
That grows to trees in my mind.
Can anyone save us, who can see
in a world that's gone blind?
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:57 AM UTC
My hands are always cold
with no one left to hold them.
My scars, a little too visible.
My memory, a little too lonesome.
Sitting under a bridge thinking,
about the trainspotting
pipe smokers.
Letting my mind carry me off
tryin' to catch some of that smolder
ed green
that burns in my bronchioles.
That grows to trees in my mind.
Can anyone save us, who can see
in a world that's gone blind?
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