the hollowscape of the sun-stripped place,
where sorrow snakes burrowed in your face,
the decadent seem to be the only saved
was a place you once called paradise

the horrible one drags his worn out sun
through the muddy muck of the fucked up square,
newsboy spoke of an execution there
where you stared at your body swayin'

you went to your hometown to look for a cause
for the starving groan of whatever was,
you can’t make out the snakes from the doves
as the foundation of a childhood crumbles

the crows pick seeds from the dried up dust
so the plants can’t grow, but the cars still rust
your heads torn up by a justice lust
and a thrust of a thumb in the air

to lurk in fire or end up somewhere,
dissolving in the waters of a woolen chair,
to look away scared when faced with the stares
of the bodies that bleed for your comfort

you could stumble home to your retail throne,
your thunder mind and your dry cloud moans,
your junky eyes and the telephone
scratching on the surface of nowhere

or find some peace or fancy a god
in the silhouettes mixed in with the fog
it’s moving back now, it may soon be gone
'less you jump from your chair and follow it

your lazy, your glued to your dollars fate,
you killed your soul to use as bait,
your mind's numb, your heart weeps in hate
at the one who starved it of its wonder

and so on the seasons go
until a sweet mother wind blows
and another soul follows the road. . .