He sits among the rest, buried in his seat.
The clatter of the crowd is drowning out his speech.
He turns to look at us, a mirror burned in deep.
He wonders who you are, you wonder what he means.
We are the matched and numbered ones.
We have been placed in all their codes.
You may be blessed in your own, you may be blessed by your own ghost.
She makes the driver blush with pains of tongues and knees.
She opens up the car leaving air to breath.
The moments all messed up with lanes that bleed in sheets that cover up our tracks
and lead us to her keep.
We are the matched and numbered ones who lives in constant disrepair.
You may be blessed by your own, you may be blessed by your own ghost.
Here I'm stressing over fallen angels with cause to cover.
Here I'm stressing over numbers, we're in constant disrepair.
Here I'm stressing over fallen angels with cause to cover.
We are the matched and numbered ones who lives in this constant disrepair.
You may be blessed by your own, you may be blessed by your own ghost.