Tom

Your season fixated on sleep and their laziness
Traveling the fairgrounds, and deciding who's failed you at best
High is your voice still sung in the circus tents
Touching your tongue on the ceilings of song

How many skies fell on your horizon line
Would you go nowhere if you had a nowhere to go nowhere to?
Never afraid of challenging the scene
If it punched out my lights, then I would punch out it's sun

Can you not see that your audience is leaving?
They were crushed in the foyers, unable to find seating
The ushers in protest for the tears they planned on keeping
Will soon turn to rivers not worthy of drinking

The light now embarrassed and afraid of the dark
Is seen covering it's evening with garments of stars
The windmill stands turning towards the hurricane's push
Through keyholes, and stanza, singing onward we must