theres a hand at dusk
in the wake in the water its mine
can you take the palm of it
for every time you change your mind
you are the flash of skin
seen through the leaves of anxious trees
the summers touch just above the knee
just above the knee
theres architecture here
and there are mountain peaks
and places dwelled upon by those
who climb much higher than me
like so many miles you are compiled
into books of maps by men with hands
can you believe that we will all get old
its getting old i know, i know
ill hold your hair back when youre sick
its getting old i know, i know
you still look good to me in that knee-length checkered dress
its getting old i know, i know
you still look good to me in that knee-length checkered dress
its getting old
its getting old
the emperor of time has been stationed
devidends melts into all forms of light (?)
i shall crack his bone
and chase him to far shores of the sea
implicate my dark appetite
the emperor of time has been stationed
when the paper ends, it melts into all forms of light (?)
i shall crush his bone
and chase him to the white shores of the sea
implicate my appetite