Talk about the field behind your house,
Talk about a sky, filled up with clouds...

Can you hear the protest songs?
See the believers in the streets...

Picture frames know better
than to question what's inside...

A shimmer-step with
twelve feet on the ground...

Cradled in heavy, grieving arms,
my head is wrapped in a fog of sorrow...

I've heard about what eyes can do.
I never doubted it was true...

Notebooks filled with thoughts of love.
Words penned in secret ink...

On this graveyard hill,
the fireworks reserved...

Perfect is what we aim for, though it's an uphill...
Perfect makes it better, when nothing's going...

Take another picture
with your fake face on...

Who was there, and why is it okay?
But not for me...

Find me a place where true hearts rest.
Alone, but not lonesome, in finery dressed...