I heard your love is dead and you’re trying to get sober. I hope you’ll go to bed before the night is over. Your mind is reeling in pictures without the key to unlock it, and your shoulder twins brew a mixture - a blend you keep in your pocket.
First come the storms of winter and then the birds of spring (again). And you say “Well I’ll just linger a little more and watch the fountains sing. Then I’ll go to the station - and and and buy myself a ticket, and if my shadow picks the same destination… I’ll beat it till I kill it!” Leave the blood in the womb, leave your share in its cage. Draw the curtains in your room and spit some words on a page. They’ll pull you out of that trench.
So strike your name off the letters. Forget the lies you were told. Remember to pack your sweaters - in case the summers turn cold. I won’t be here when you come back (at least I will have changed) so if you ever get sidetracked, forget the plans we’ve arranged. And leave a rose on the tomb, leave the quiet for the sage. Swing a net to the moon and take these songs to the stage. They’ll pull you out of that trench.