things that disapear

and so found in futures
a suture's eye
checking pulses drains free from helpful smiles
we just pull the best of us out
and drag it down
this is no kind of alchemy
no kind of freely spoken/known
whispers in the morning
made dim by light that's not yet come
home that hasn't been here for so
long, you never know what comes from anything
until you're gone
(until it's gone)
and something sacred you know must be
out there waiting
but here it's so cold so smooth
and dying the mental deaths of
ten thousand tears comes easy
when it's all you've got to hold onto
all you get to think about
seems like it's turning out for the best
they say, world'll work itself out
life won't come to you
but laying here in the morning
is all you've got it all.

2004-06-06 | 7:54 p.m.
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