I read the romance is dead Of blistering fingers and melanin legs No more like eras before Trying to find our four walls and a floor And I cry for images I Haven't seen myself but once or twice I breath, gritting my teeth Thinking it gives me some kind of relief Oh, oh white feathers bound together By the moon Shepard tones and native moans will consume Poor decisions, desert visions Slow Bloom Purple haze and hourless days in late June I can't take this subtle ache I cannot ignore the call of life this way Oh lord why should I decide Between the left and the right What landscapes could I disgrace In a tongue I cannot seem to recreate Rare thoughts of what could have been But not without the walls caving in