I wear the cheekbones of warriors, Eyes like a storm before it breaks. My gaze ain’t lost — it’s ancient. A crown in my marrow, a flame in my wake. They call it baby-faced — But that’s a mask from the gods. A trick of the light before the thunder. A kindness before the claws. I got Cherokee in my blood, Crowns in my bones. You see soft? I see stone. And every little~ kindness disposed, broken down into the mythic, tirelessly proposed, left in the hypnotic, and gallant staining like a bed of roses, secrets and robes, cult like in the specter and summoning the heretics, [clap] and even with the eyes as the windows, I'm breezy where the wind blows, tired eyes from the despondent wonder~ of the open blue yonder~ I could reach you and take your hand to my eye- line into flight, show you my hopes and nightmares. Both I equally despair Because you ask me in the process, living life in a process, tirelessly breathing into the crisis, I wasn't built for anything, but put into my mind, the voice of reason unraveling, Christmas is frozen in in blue tide seasons, call it the loss of hope, or the loss of vanity, because I need darkness to cope, while I descend from sanity~~ [clap] and even with the eyes as the windows, I'm breezy where the wind blows, tired eyes from the despondent wonder~ of the open blue yonder~ I could reach you and take your hand to my eye- line into flight, show you my hopes and nightmares. Both I equally despair But I run every time I get here, every time things get clear, [clap] and even with the eyes as the windows, I'm breezy where the wind blows, tired eyes from the despondent wonder~ of the open blue yonder~ I could reach you and take your hand to my eye- line into flight, show you my hopes and nightmares. Both I equally despair
