The green, the seemingly endless streams of could it be and have you seen.
Leaving nothing in between the empty sheets where they have been.
But a mean silence, a violent reminder to the riders on the storm.
Worn out faces from being torn and thrown, born, again, alone.
The paths of peril herald brave and bold the untold riches.
Her sharp mouth leaves scars stitched again with listeners.
And christmas every other day.
The blue, a grave and bitter hue of unforgiving truth fills his shoes.
Crooning news to recover or evidence to lose, his lovely pretty noose.
Moves to proof a fool.