where the circle ends

mountain ranges

morning red bathed ridges

stab up at the trembling blue horizon

grey slides lazily off rooftops

lands on the incandescent ground and dies

a flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of porchlight

dawn's footsoldiers return to march the twilight across our faces

skylights ignite and explode

scattering shards of april around the room

no one even lives here

we're too busy crashin our cars every morning in the same house

paving the same roads

unwilling to walk them

and even when we extend ourselves

its only to be included

in a moment that stands still

and so often we don't struggle to improve conditions

we struggle for the right to say we improved conditions"