Leaf by leaf and page by page, throw this book away.
All the sadness, all the rage, throw this book away.
Rip out the binding and tear the glue,
and all of the grief we never even knew we had it all along, now it's smoke.
The things we written in it never really happened.
All the things we've written in never really happened.
And all of the people come and gone never really lived,
and all the people come have gone, no one to forgive smoke.
We will not write a new one, there will not be a new one, another one, another one.
Here's an evening dark with shame, throw it on the fire.
Here's the time I took the blame, throw it on the fire.
Here is the time that we didn't speak, it seems for years and years and here's a secret;
No one will ever know the reasons for the tears, they are smoke.
We will not write a new one. There will not be a new one, another one, another one.
Where do all the secrets live? They travel in the air.
You can smell them when they burn, they travel.
Those who say the past is not dead can stop and smell the smoke.
You keep saying the past is not dead, well stop and smell the smoke.
You keep on saying the past is not even past, and you keep saying we are smoke.
Smoke. Smoke.
 Barghest · Tue Sep 06, 2005 @ 07:47am · 0 Comments |
