Writing Lyrics

Bury the tracks - Hey, we've got a mutiny on our hands.

Spectators place bets on this spectacle, the shallow place between etiquette and erratic.
The static of mouths mumbling makeshift morals is breaking up reception to the tune of silent stories.

We've got chains tied to our ankles and bars across our mouths, now six stories wait for endings.
Every page you skip is another step you miss.

Bring me back to that first winter, where the hits covered the sidewalk.
Bring me back to that chalk outline, where the words covered our bodies.

The power line was a map in the morning light.
I wrapped myself in change and began to climb.
The phone line took me to the edge of the waking bay.
The city lights watched as I sailed away.