I’m painting the shutters of a house in the fire, You’re tuning the strings of a broken-neck lyre. We’re buying a ticket for a train that won't run, Staring at shadows and calling them sun. We’re just actors on a sinking stage, Reading the ink from an empty page. Why do we polish the rust on the chain? Why do we dance in a desert for rain? The heart is a museum for the things we sold, We’re just holding a fire that’s already cold. You’re stitching a coat for a suit in the hall, I’m bracing the beams of a crumbling wall. A perfectly polished, beautiful lie, With a smile for the neighbors as we learn how to die. The rust on the chain. The empty page. The fire is cold. Let it go.
