On the wings of the cloud that we flew upon,
Had the night ever found us so cold.
Of the times we sang aloud to the sky alone,
Our flight it never found us so old.
And we try, and we fly, while we revive
The shattered shards of a tattered life.
So we sang to the sky until it grew tired of our song.
We cried and we cried until we flew higher on the drafts
Of our tired lungs.
The dead rose of reality wilts beneath the somber sun.
A red dose of profanity can still cure what ails the Devil's son.
Under the canvas canopy
Of the tent that bathed you in the most luscious red light
I got to know my innate insanity
On our first wingless flight.
And I fight with my superstitions,
Traditions can k**.
And I count the pounds of my mortality;
A once beating heart now lies still.