The floorboards are made of unread mail I’m treading water in a bucket of hail The ceiling is melting like a peppermint sweet And I’m losing the shape of the people I meet I tied a red string to my index finger But the finger is gone, though the feelings linger I’m sweeping the dust into piles of gold But the broom is a story I’ve already told The carousel turns in a house made of mist I’m fighting a shadow that doesn't exist I’m squeezing the air 'til my knuckles turn white Trying to bottle the leftovers of light Cling to the edges, hang by a hair But I’m climbing a ladder that leads to nowhere It’s thinning out, it’s drifting away Like a radio signal at the end of the day The clock on the wall has forgotten its hands I’m walking through deserts of hourglass sands I found a suitcase filled with wet glass Watching the seasons collide as they pass There’s a face in the mirror I used to know well But it’s ringing out soft like a cracked silver bell I’ve got the keys but I’ve lost all the doors I’m pacing the miles on these shifting floors The ink is escaping back into the pen The "now" is becoming a "way back when" I’m a library fire in a heavy storm Keeping the shivering echoes warm But the shelves are bare... The carousel turns in a house made of mist I’m fighting a shadow that doesn't exist I’m squeezing the air 'til my knuckles turn white Trying to bottle the leftovers of light Cling to the edges, hang by a hair But I’m climbing a ladder that leads to nowhere My palms are open... The grip is gone. What was the name of the song? There was a bird... or was it a stone? I’m standing in a crowd, but I’m standing alone I’m holding tight to a... To a... Actually, I think I’m just holding my breath. I don't know what I lost. But I know that it's gone.
