A low moon scraped against haunting trees
With dead finger tips grasping.
Our eyes were gasping for light
As we walked through the cemetery at night,
Searching for a ghost with no grave,
Wondering if ourselves could be saved.
But there is only sound as a result
Of self-afflicted blindness
And knees on the ground.
We are driving now,
Blurred light from the dash
And the ash-colored pavement
Press against my retinas.
The bent antenna puts static in the songs,
And I can still feel their bodies,
Limply hanging on.
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