Here on cloudy house the fireplace bellows, sweet in yellow and red flame. The there’s tomorrow it could be different, but the truth is that nothing here changes, strangers in our own shadows are we. It’s like two ships in the night misguided in perfect harmony.
A stroll the market is closed but still there’s a bargain plea in the breeze for the truth to be told. Then there’s tomorrow it could be different, but the truth is that nothing here changes, strangers in our own shadows are we. It’s like two ships in the night misguided in perfect harmony.
The beds where weary heads lay are not rest-worthy, for in clouded heads demons do play. But then there’s tomorrow it could be different, or….. drift away.
