Apathy

Seconds away from the breathing That I’ve come to set my rhythm to Drunken paradise and poetic reverie Burning holes in pockets, side winding bottle rockets No one in the darkness Just a pointed finger And some apathy Dripping nose no longer But I am speeding just the same Home grown and lower tone Then anyone, then anything I come to see you through the lights Holding hands with dynamite But in that picture It’s not the image That I’ve grown accustomed to It’s the ghost that haunts the memory Of what I saw in you