Tuesday, July 22, 2014

The Answer

Telegraphs are written through smiles 
Across cold rooms 
Becoming warm and emptied out places 
Made of fabric woven from memory 
Stretched beyond pain and fear 
It interferes with the picture we want to create 

So we wonder how do we cut that away 

There's a time table to death 
A millisecond until it all ends 
I refuse to live life in a coffin 
Every nail bent 
I can tell you the secret 
If you come close 

It's called equal value 

Back and forth 
Continually working at something 
If it's not equal 
Then find fifty plus fifty 
And it ain't ice cream 
If you know what I mean