Rachael

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Vold Book

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She walked toward the window, careful not to be seen in the light
Looking for a sign of his arrival, pressing down the feelings deep inside
Synthetic vistas of a hopeful paradise, antiquated relics of a destiny gone by
Floating in the wake of desperate dreams, and captive to the whims of sinister things

Their time was like a bomb with anxious fuse, a fatal tryst of love inside a ruse
Trusting in their spoken declarations, amidst the cliffs of doubt and reservations
Urgent swells of hope and loss and love, beating down the prospect of the dove
The absurdity of what will be remains, but cannot be contained within the grin
Of the sniper who demands their very lives, the ticking of the clock is on his side
The beating of the drum is eminent, within the sphere of vital acts to come
The undoing of the end has just begun, and everything compels the dying sun
To freeze in the stutter of the night, losing all benefit of sight
To bet against the shadow of the light, and go against the grain for what is right
How to define the emptiness inside, when all you know is fighting at your side
And luck it seems is just a tiny box, that holds a metal pick unlatching locks
That guard against the riddle so unfair, a teardrop on a noose of newly minted hair

Separation is a universal theme, it's one that tears the seams unseen
Tensions wide-awake like a crossbow, taut with debt and elderly regret
A sign of things to come under the moon, that sniper whistling familiar tunes
Death is one of many things I fear, but short of losing you my ghastly dear
Four more years is all we ever had, passing through this wilderness so mad
Several years ago, I took my place, in the lineage of crescent-faced
Dreamers who believe with angel wings, we are the martyrs of tomorrow's wizardry
The devil hides inside menageries, with robots that resemble you and me
We cannot understand his wicked ways, until we sip the bitter aftertaste
It trails on and on forevermore, hunting down the ones who know the score
Our love is like a broken glass of wine, shattered by the recoiling of the vine
And still, we seek to separate the shards, from the sacramental curse of our cards
The old shall pass away unto the new, and everything that comes will never do
To repair the damage we inherited: the silence at the end of grateful dead

Spirals of our fear whipping 'round, disturb the slumber of the ground
And what we had in store, forever now, is lost: inside the sniper's bow

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