you never claimed to be a great man. just a number with no footprints in the sand, run over and over-sung.
going quiet into that goodnight, just like you always wanted-- you said you never would.
shouldn’t have made it past thirty, you said. god only knows, you said. i used to, i used to, i used to.
i think you’ve always been there, and i think you always will be but sometimes seven strikes, and i start to cry.
run for the shadows, because they’re all we have left.
i think you never became who you were until after you were ashes, then we lost you before we knew it too.
how can i die when i’m already in heaven?
how can a prophet predict hell?