a wintry storm in the middle of march
the bones need to rid the cold
people will sit and freeze on their front steps
waiting to do as they're told

i'll make my way to a bar across town
to see what the night drags in
a room full of bores but the whiskey pours
it's the way that it's always been

the kitchen is full of rosy cheeked companions
who'll sing until their throats are hoarse
people nod off, others openly retire
the night has to run its course

i'll take my time with this bottle of wine
toast to their sleeping heads
that i might get mine before yo get yours
i'll let you know how it's been

the dew of the morning creeps under my skin
scares all the warmth away
i step on the leaves, dead under my feet
the seasons will turn again

unchanging dreams are a dangerous thing
like running with anything sharp
but run i can try and with no peering eyes
i'll flee into the autumn dark

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