At the end of everyday, when the sky has turned to chalk
When the clouds are almost late, they’re so much later in the fall.
Many years have passed me by, passed me by without a thought
You spoke so badly of yourself, so poorly that it hurt.
Dissatisfied.
Does the devil know your name?
Did he hear your thoughts?
Did he feed your demons full?
Pick them up and help them walk?
Give me the instrument of thought, let the anger pass away.
I’ll focus in and face the east; I’ve got a ringing in my ears.
Dissatisfied.
