Signs

Eastbound concrete from god-knows-where,

A tangle of freeways, a tangle of golden hair

From birth in a city intended for angels

Where I saw the devil in a cardigan,

I saw airplanes land and depart again,

I saw my hand smear blood like a lefthand pen.

But the sun now whispers on the nape of my neck

And the radio fills silence where any is left,

We're breathing now, all the city and smog

That makes your golden hair grow a little bit bolder

And shakes this old world that I've left on my shoulders.