He plays his life a G flat string,
behind gravestones on summer nights.
He's a band of bassists,
keeping time with a stopwatch made of light.
Through the moon he leaps across your rooftop,
and through his eyes you'll see,
those grand pianos and long lost hymns,
is he a reflection of me?
And I'm yet to find myself in his cabin in the woods.
where Goldilocks has second chances to live just like she should,
Little red hoods, bobbing through the grass,
Darling, where are you going with
your basket full of trash?
He'll reassure you,
He'll tell you how.
He's the beast between two hands,
the phantom of the hour.
He's God;
He's gone.
Author notes
An unfinished song, really.
=)
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