Tears in my eyes, girl,
tears in my eyes, girl,
while I'm waiting, while
I'm waiting for my turn,
as we part in the rain in
late October, Brooklyn
behind us Manhattan in
front the train leads us
across the river, across
the hunger of figuring
out what is isn't. Not
like we all wanted it to be.
And so the sun rises
yesterday
to the west, where home
lies. Like every Zeppelin
song ever.
And regrets ride high like
miscommunication, intolerant
near 8th street. Easygoing,
above all that's how I make
this life, not how others make
it out for me, not how the city
or the village or the household
tried to make this life, no.
Holy Mount Zion lies where
people aren't.
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