Author Information
Hours
Folder:
Thought For Food hours fall out the window
onto the street below
tires disperse the parts
of the grandfather clock
still do hear the echoes
of midnight and of noon
with the ev'ning sirens
surrounding the pale purple hue
and there's nothing left
but to lay still
bullets go over your head
but not all hide from the truth
every silent second
is a ticking time bomb
whose pin was pulled for fun
got in that sports car drunk
still are a thousand words
and replays in your head
never stopping talking
..ever again..
till there's nothing left
but to lay still
bullets go over your head
but none remain below the truth
one way or the other
still do hear the echoes
of midnight come at noon
with the ev'ning sirens
surrounding whisps and candle dew
and there's nothing left
but to lay still
bullets go over your head
but not all hide from the truth
