Open the photograph book
Can you hear the laughter of our childhood?
This memory's worth a thousand words
I can recite every moment
Conceal the laughter, hide the smiles
And I can't remember our last serenade
The camera hides inside our temper
Too afraid to find what's become of us
And we're too impatient to find forgiveness
To collect our hearts from the kidnapper
I'm giving up; you're taking down:
The barren petals apart from this rose
It's too late
The sun is setting
The embers of our love
Are burning in the clouds
We'll wake tomorrow
To ash descending skies
A box of matches lies in our hands
So what are we waiting for?
The clock's ticking down
But our hands remain still
Imitating the pictures
Before the bullet builds the hole
Our matches incinerated
As smiles fold to curtains
Strike flame to the windows
Now there's a hole in the glass
Where we cut out all consciousness
And as I reach through
I choke the emptiness
Grasping the affliction of my regrets
The only paradise we've ever known
Now buried in the evanescence
Of the rising sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment