Cocoon

This cocoon, caught in Vesuvius' shadow Only the ashes remain And I waited there for you Why couldn't you? Here we lie waiting for something to startle To shake us from gravity's pull And so the sleeping hours are through What can we do? The tainted election, the low dirty war, it happened before you came to But this is solution, and this is amends The joke always tends to come true But there on your windowsill over the unmoving platoon Written in paperback, the key to the quarterback's room Under waning moon This quiet serves only to hide you Provide you What I knew: it'd come back to you Take this palm, follow the lines here are written And script out the rest of your life And feel your fingers falling slack and all folding back The sorry conclusion, the hole in the sky Command what is tried, what is true But without solution, with feet on the ground It won't make a sound 'til you're through So loosen your shoulder blades 'Tis is your hour to make due Because there on the timberline Deep cold November shines through Soft and absolute --- Cocoon - The Decemberists