who's out there to see inside
sometimes the fun of masks wins out
and hours pass where the fake face is real
but in my dreams
i can almost hear a truer life
calling out like hunters' winding horns
a sound that stirs a feeling
that colors the rain and the day with
i hate to say 'meaning'
but with a hint of the thing
at least

it's a cheap joke to set us moving
through life like
unwrapped mannequins
ingorant robot armies
covering the planet in white lies
and filled with heartaching, drilling, searching,
golden-white hope and blue loss
and gray for every day
until sensible rises up
and puts us in our graves