On a hidden cul-de-sac, silent streets hide cold colonials
from the common sway of ringing bells. Springtime with wilted roses,
pouring down death onto ruthless peace. Death tricks struggling babies
into believing its icy dreams but they know better. Their dry, brown faces
dance to the hand of flames in their bones that bring empty-night loneliness
bowing down to the Devil's knock, hiding underneath faint dustballs.
They think there is beauty in their yards, less the faint dustballs
fall like silk curtains in a Humpty Dumpty world of cold colonials.
Not even the destruction of April showers can end the empty-night loneliness
of the sidewalk. And what is worse: the cruel sting of slow-coming wilted roses
or the climbing snarl of hatred from those dry, brown faces?
Neither drowns in the rain like the melting tears of the struggling babies.
Fate's slippery hand loosed its grip around the struggling babies
whose parents roam the town's landscape, pushing the faint dustballs
from their artificial lawns and into the eyes of those dry, brown faces
just so their shaky unions could hide behind the cold colonials.
Still, under the watchful eye of chipped trees, intoxicating wilted roses
die with the everlasting grief of empty-night loneliness.
The dread of coming home sours the empty-night loneliness
as fate grieves for the lost, abandoned by the sidewalk. Struggling babies
stolen too soon, innocence gone, safety shattered. Wilted roses
then scream as bleeding thumbs pluck them, missing the faint dustballs
that awaken the morning town. Cold newspapers hit cold colonials
but it doesn't change anything, especially on the dry, brown faces.
I guess my hysterical longing for change scares those dry, brown faces
who hide behind the sweeping darkness of empty-night loneliness.
April showers sully the sidewalk but not the cold colonials,
nor the echoing sound of delusional pain, the struggling babies
stifling the tremble of fear passing over the faint dustballs
into the clawing hands of black squirrels eating wilted roses
that didn't make it this year. But as for those wilted roses
they die but not as rapidly as the dry, brown faces
who only come out now to observe the windless grass and faint dustballs.
They don't even notice the receding cracks of the empty-night loneliness,
howling under the moonlight along with those struggling babies.
The dullness of their weary lives fading along with the cold colonials.
In time, the sidewalk shrinks into the shadows of the empty-night loneliness.
In the morning, the street will appear the same to those dry, brown faces
who do not see the perfect sadness lurking behind those cold, cold colonials.