It was the year of ancient reappearing and modern hiding, I held a mirror up the ghosting sigh (d) as though a microphone or chipin, like chirpin but hipper and happier on purpose, tell me why I'm your hero, tell me why the myth will heal the man afterall Oh the furtive glances, the counterfeit indifference, would that we just blurt them as pangs as prisoners of love there's no such thing as a prisoner of love and there's no such thing as freedom except we reappear and we hide to the rhythm of the sound the color drums a round infinite inverse muting trumpet blues for souls loved by nature, coveted, raided with mercy
