Give me back one last chance to drink from the sky.
I'm sick of chasing echoes and fighting a lost cause
just to let words fly. Once there was so much left
to what was real but these days I'll never bet my hand
on the first thing you feel.
Eight generations passed on one last curse one last
chance to shake free one million nights passed losing
sense once so easy to see.
Fell short of real. Stuck in a world,
with no in's or out's. "I've left to many lives behind,"
she cries. Stronger words for a fading will when a
new language only serves to cut even deeper still,
and pennies for your thoughts are simply wasted on
chance, and we are twisting through years without looking ahead.