Orange Skies over West Gate traffic flow
Turns the bay to folded sheets of copper down below
Buildings turn from factories to magic lights that
glow
And I’m taking on a darkness of my own
Windshield of dead flies, no longer free to roam
Heading out of the roadhouse from one more
ever-ringing phone
Movement can make you weary, rushing with the engine’s
moan
And I’m taking on a feeling she’s not in there alone

Night air is wheezing through the jeans and her
nightgown
Two bodies won’t be freezing where candlelight has
them bound
Windowless breaking is sometimes the sweetest sound
And I’m taking on a feeling of running ‘till they cut
me down
‘Till they cut me dow