Take me out, on a dark clear cloud.
Years pass and I’ll fall through the ground.
Into a mound of women speak,
She hates her for taking him from she,
Hearts turn cheeks,
I’ve hardly room to speak.
So you hate her, she’s the bane of your wingspan.
She’s climbing your ribs, tapping at your cage,
You’re a meek bird.
So you pen a word or two, just to heal some wounds.
A shallow grave, dug by a spoon.
Who’s to blame you or me,
I’ve hardly room to speak.
I stand on a dish and I cut right open,
’Til I am left in bone.
Sharp to stab around in a circle,
While the center ends up on a throne.
There’s a mirror, layin low on its backside.
It’s starin’ straight up ahead, and opening the street wide.
If I punch through the ground, will there be sky?
A hole or reflection, I can’t decide.
Oh why so hard to see?
I’ve hardly room to speak.