Beside bricked stories whither streets the sun doesn't touch.
Strung out in all directions where our paths almost cross.
News center bulletins folded over reruns... rerun.
Blank-staring off the early morning fuzz.
And on a read headlines laid out like a tally sheet,
listing obituaries.
Brick by brick lay your story's next.
Brick after brick sink into the depths.
Living words on your dying breaths.
Churches line the streets of the old neighborhoods,
just monuments in places that good men once stood.
Their stance in part a sense of youthful nostalgia,
at the same time an ominous reminder.
That it's cold here in the shadows of the steeples,
a testament to the times.
Brick by brick lay your story's next.
Brick after brick sink into the depths.
Living words on your dying breaths.
Just like with all beliefs:
choose the one that helps you sleep.
Whatever it means.
Whatever you need
to get to sleep.
Do it,
and forget
you hate to be awake
without it.
Brick by brick lay your story's next.
Brick after brick sink into the depths.
Living words on your dying breaths.
