The weather's getting warmer
there's still static in your snowy eyes
and moonlight waxing pale shines
a searchlight
through this night's
humming summer city haunts
frames your face and splashes mine
with the truth that lies behind
a well-intentioned whitewash lie
that we care where we're going,
that we know what we're doing
and daily life don't scare us blind.
The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
And we're not looking back until
we hear no chasing sounds
so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.
The silver night was spilling
quiet rainstorms on your dark red hair
and my resolve was waning there
against those
smiles we wrote
in that crumbling concrete hour.
'Cuz we'd never been that close
to divorcing deceased ghosts
and coming clean from mud-caked boasts
that our chains never rattled,
that we never felt saddled
beneath our heavy, self-sewn cloaks.
The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
We're never looking back again,
and we won't make a sound
so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.
Tunneled under the walls now
it's high time we put some ground
between us and our yesterdays
that howl like baying hounds.
We'll pound the pavement
and catch a few winks where we can.
And we'll be living days
and sleeping nights and making plans.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
The weather's getting warmer
there's still static in your snowy eyes
and moonlight waxing pale shines
a searchlight
through this night's
humming summer city haunts
frames your face and splashes mine
with the truth that lies behind
a well-intentioned whitewash lie
that we care where we're going,
that we know what we're doing
and daily life don't scare us blind.
The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
And we're not looking back until
we hear no chasing sounds
so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.
The silver night was spilling
quiet rainstorms on your dark red hair
and my resolve was waning there
against those
smiles we wrote
in that crumbling concrete hour.
'Cuz we'd never been that close
to divorcing deceased ghosts
and coming clean from mud-caked boasts
that our chains never rattled,
that we never felt saddled
beneath our heavy, self-sewn cloaks.
The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
We're never looking back again,
and we won't make a sound
so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.
Tunneled under the walls now
it's high time we put some ground
between us and our yesterdays
that howl like baying hounds.
We'll pound the pavement
and catch a few winks where we can.
And we'll be living days
and sleeping nights and making plans.
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