My room overlooks snowy hills,
On a house sky high,
I hear my father descending stone stairs,
my mother creaking up attic pine,
My father coming to pick me up saturday morning,
My mother in the attic on a saturday night.
I once saw a mans foot dangle from the clouds,
The roofer above my room outside
A discounted price no doubt,
Tho the roof is above the pines,
The front door is below the stone,
Cant build like that anymore, due to code.
Barely remember anything below 8,
I guess my father used to stay out late,
Sometimes i would awake to the summer day,
With knocks at the door for brunch,
Down the stairs flying i would go,
Only opening to the night, the stone and the cold.
The meanest dreams I know.
The snowy hills can play tricks,
Like the day I saw a fox,
Outside looking over the pines,
Something distant, rubbing my eyes,
Coming so close I see it trot.
I know she is carrying memories,
When I hear those creaking stairs,
I snuck up to the attic once,
And those windows rattled in that jetstream air.
I found a photo, diagonally ripped in half,
A hand on the shoulder of a boy about to laugh,
It looked like the boy was smiling to the darkness,
Due to the album being black.
These snowy hills can be cruel,
From the attic I can see that fox,
It comes so close, in that leafless distance,
then it suddenly stops.