Traces
Words and music by Béla Selendy
Half past four and I've lain awake
shadows of night slipping into day
and the moon has come and gone
street scraped clean by a rising sun
car window bleeds from a jagged wound
but the thieves have come and gone
and I slip into a dream
when my mind opens wide to
things I've never seen
there's an old crone on a subway train
her eyes seeking mine overflow with pain
at the loss of her body's former grace
glass door of a convenience store
the clerk looks alive but he seem unsure
and his cigarette just puts him out of place
see the faces of the dead
see the faces of the dead
I twist and turn and I shake my head
think of giving up, maybe leaving the bed
with its sweat-soaked sheets alone
then I'm pulled under by the claw of fatigue
my mind throws in the towel, sets my body free
in its sweat-soaked sheets alone
and I slip into a dream
when my mind opens wide to
things I've never seen
there's a jetliner with an engine short
a jungle runway, tower calls abort
and my passports all expired long ago
curved line of apartment blocks
dead windows stare like cemented skulls
my cellphone screams its charge is running low
hotel with a hundred floors
elevator rusty with a missing door
Escher's staircase offers no relief
cast member never read the play
the audience applauds at the rich buffet
but the dressing room has vomit on the floor
see the faces of the dead
see the faces of the dead
see the faces of the dead
hear the voices of the dead
read the stories of the dead
feel the traces of the dead