In the winter of the will where we have parked,
There are new words dealing in the dark,
Out you go – all you know.
In the time spun off the clock where we are sinking,
There are distant pretty eyes and now they’re winking,
From the shore – out you go.
There are cardboard cutouts of your dreams,
They’re getting soaked and called obscene.
There are straw men carrying your ideals,
Into the fire, burning off the wheels.
In the solace of a cave where we have stored,
All the love stories we were ever told,
Take a page – calm the rage.
In the broken transportation to the coast,
Simultaneous we sit around and boast,
On the stage – take a page.
That there are cardboard cutouts of our dreams,
They’re getting soaked and called obscene.
And there are straw men carrying our ideals,
Into the fire, burning off the wheels.
Oh my my my my my my
Oh my my my my my
In the winter of the will where we were resting,
There are people and they say they’re only testing,
Out their lines, just all the time.
At the beaches there are teachers of the sea,
But the sea doesn’t give a damn about me,
Out I go – All I know.
And there are cardboard cutouts of my dreams,
Getting soaked, called obscene.
There are straw men carrying my ideals,
Into the fires, burning off their wheels.
Oh my my my my my
Oh my my my my
It seems that we are more engaged in tearing down than building up, more prone to outrage than empathy, where sharing slices of your self as you see it provokes ridicule not respect. But your dreams may indeed be obscene: the actual dreams that play while you sleep. Dreams, ideals, where do they meet? I imagine a winter of the will where we do not fully understand the machinations but we suspect they do not care for us. Maybe they cannot care for us? The sea doesn't give a damn about me.
