There's release in the trashcan and it's free in the air,
Lawnmowers haunt the late yawners
And cracks in old fabric expose a near escape.
At this point, days stop going by the dates.
A desk is turned into life's misinterpretation
In the form of irony and alcohol.
We come to leave our state of being
Perpetually, dissatisfied like the shuttles
That return in paranoia that they are spinning
And the world is what is standing still.
Do you hide your thrill in hand-hiding pockets
When returning rockets prove your feet on the ground?
Then why does the moon pull the shores and your frown?
Why do you smile when no one else is around?
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