If future versions ever ask, I was a runaway.
I was the last of the sane before the jailbreak.
With a list of words to hear you say on the wailing wall
where I tallied the days before the rainfall.
I want to cloud
transform a cirrus on your tongue 'til storms are imminent.
Imminent givers, losers, givers...
Dry those pestilent tears, my desolate dear.
When parts of me are giving way, I'll hear the palest laughter
from the summer before we all moved faster.
It's hardest now to see those leaves, how on a quickening breeze
they whispered warnings in paper love, green envy.
I want to cloud,
transform a cirrus on your tongue 'til storms are imminent.
Imminent givers? Losers?
I want a sound.
How can I sear it on my lungs 'til their forms are infinite?
Infinite givers, losers, givers, losers
Dry those pestilent tears, my desolate dears.
Let me know you're emptied out
and dry those pestilent tears, my desolate dear.
credits
from Sum Or Sung EP,
track released February 12, 2011
Steve Bergeron
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