The thin light yawning
My movements just shadows on pavement
Until I pass through doors framed in yellow, glazed in ice
Into dry, humid halls; festering with stoned conquistadors
Conquering themselves over and over and over again
I exist for a time as only eyes
While the songs of a crooked patriot
Beat off of the walls, twisting themselves tightly
Their moisture dripping onto the dirty floor
The trumpeteer juggling his cigarette and his sound
Blowing his horn with red eyes, ashing into a mug of day old water
A weary kid beating two drums, his bloodshot face concentrating on rythmes
While a shy girl sings to herself, trapped behind the dark folk of love and war
The hemp covered musicians stand around a wooden coffee table
More stains on their clothing than on the vintage rug
Their friends come and go as they please, hanging compliments from the wooden beams overhead
And I'm trapped in time, surrounded by recycled plastic
And a heat that is louder than my thoughts
Cigarette smoke looking for a place to go
Feeling the walls for guidance
I can't see myself in the mirror, I'm not sure that's a bad thing
They leave the dormatory in a gray fog, their songs trailing behind them like dust off their backs
Alone for once in the kingdom of sunflowers
Locked away in the far tower, testing my limits, myself
Feeling the walls for guidance, for advice, for love...for ambition
For freedom...
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