::taste:::::: Tropical
::mood:::::
Unfinished Song
Rusty staples hold together
Broken bodies, stormy weather.
Patch the clouds up in the sky,
And wish it all would die.
In the dreams of those we lost,
Pay the toll, we pay the cost,
And if it ever comes to this
Think of those we've come to miss.
We'll mend these tears,
Throw away these years,
Train our eyes
To see past all the lies,
Cut down the weeping willows,
and wash these tear stained pillows.
The pieces are gone
And we'll move on.
Move on.
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