Selling me dreams neatly stacked Just like your new books never read They stay on the shelf Looking very pretty Stacked up neatly... Just like your promises Never to be realized Never to be read...
Faint light filters through the curtain lace On a dusky cold winter morn As steamy cups of coffee sit upon the beech wood tray We sit there in silence Lots to talk about but nothing to say The coffee grows cold With polite smiles frozen on our faces Talk about the weather Talk about the children Talk about Sunday mass Talk about everything else but us...