The coffee’s a pool of black ink on a Tuesday morning Sunlight’s a trespasser, kicking down the bedroom door I’m tracing the ghosts of old maps on my tired palms While the clock on the wall keeps a tally of the score Just a shadow in the hallway, looking for a way out Of this concrete canyon where the silence is a shout. Oh, you’re leaning on the wall of a thousand empty years With your pockets full of minutes and your eyes full of tears Waiting for a wind that forgot how to blow In the void between the seconds where the slow rivers flow. I remember a name shouted through the teeth of a storm A laugh that didn’t ask if it was welcome or warm Now it’s just yellowed paper in a drawer with no key Just a ghost of a sailor on a dried-up sea And the neighbors slam the door like a gunshot in the hall While the virtue of patience is a shroud for us all. They tell you that the waiting is a holy kind of grace But it’s just a mask of dust on a weary, hollow face The calendar is a debt that I’ll never pay back Walking on a treadmill on a one-way track. Oh, you’re leaning on the wall of a thousand empty years With your pockets full of minutes and your eyes full of tears Waiting for a wind that forgot how to blow In the void between the seconds where the slow rivers flow. In the void... in the seconds... Just walking in the rain...
