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It was a pindrop night, black and still, face to face with open soul. The inspiration and march to cause - your warm creation from somewhere else. Be still my heart for breath and sound. Your silent circles are lost behind a tiny squeezebox and robot choir, angel's words and Immi's fire. | Replace the moons, exchange for suns and teenage thoughts of "she's the one's." They tunnel into a darkened stare (I don't recall such memories). Be still your face, and sense the light. Your melodies of drop and rise, your tiny squeezebox and robot choir, angel's words and Immi's fire. | You're just a whisper in the squeezebox air. I'll reach inside to catch me here. Electric boxes to bridge our eyes; illuminate the a.m. 5's. I want to touch and feel the fall and travel east and leave it all, just to feel your warming flame and fill my lungs to breathe again. | For this moment, dead and still, my captured soul will face the kill from tiny squeezebox to robot choir of angel's words and Immi's fire. I close my eyes and count to ten - ready or not for life again! Oh, i want a taste your innocence but what's the point if this is the end?

(c) 2008, Constructive Stumblings Music (BMI)