Tonight the captains dreams are bad.
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Searching for a dim and distant shore.
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Amidst the sluts, the drifters and the thieves,
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he doesn't dream of landing anymore.
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Drowning in these tumblers, stumbles through these doors,
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swinging out to cold cement from sticky, hard tile floors.
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These are the routes we wander girl, every goddamn day,
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so swallow hard and wipe them dreams away.
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Come to life again.
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The smoke and the cold killed the men and the dogs.
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Last glimpse of sun and all winter it's gone.
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Chained at the ankles, cuffed at the wrists.
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Stuffed into mail sacks and tossed into drifts.
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The lunar eye is burning, boring through me digging deep into my chest,
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into my head, into my dreams, into my sleep.
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These dreams these days don't give me no peace.
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The Routes We Wander
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| The Falcon |
