The doors rattle, making an instrumental percussive lullaby to sing us to sleep. Us, the ones that roam around at night. The power went out. It packed it's bags and walked south, towards a hungry cat. 3 beast. No pretty pictures, no communication, just rain. Just the instruments of slumber. Everytime I close my eyes, I try to fade away. It's been a very unlucky week, and I asky my self "Why?" Then a story takes life, and it becomes a cycle.
Baby the door is locked. Even though the shadows seep in through the bottom crack, we are safe in here, from their wandering senses. We can always hide under the sheets and pretend it's our touring circus, performing in Vegas, under the radioactive fireflies. The beating of the skin drums, and the spring metronomes cry in tune. The rain...the springs, the rain...the drums, and doors...and now she leads. How she whispers , taking delight in the midnight jam. A twenty minute track. Intermission.
Baby the door is locked. Even though the shadows seep in through the bottom crack, we are safe in here, from their wandering senses. We can always hide under the sheets and pretend it's our touring circus, performing in Vegas, under the radioactive fireflies. The beating of the skin drums, and the spring metronomes cry in tune. The rain...the springs, the rain...the drums, and doors...and now she leads. How she whispers , taking delight in the midnight jam. A twenty minute track. Intermission.
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