Thursday, May 5, 2016

Carbon

I drive through empty tunnels 
Wind passes through broken spaces 
A hundred hands grab my fingers 

I turn the music up 
Sing the last song I can remember 
The review mirror stays the same 
Funny the way things change 

Funny the way they stay the same 
A hundred hands slipping through 
None holding me 

The miles begin to look the same 
On this drive tonight 


If the Braille was written on your wall 
Could you read it 

And I pass through a crowded room 
Looking for you 
Do you see me 
Fingers touching