Dance, little liar

I’m a holy scriptwriter. I stand behind the curtain. I will know the words when the world stands to attention, when my speech bends to my will, when I know the precise position I’m to fill. I’m the one who’ll know: holy, hidden and all for show. I stand over the choir and redeem the difference. I try though sometimes I can only feign forgiveness: holy, for hire and not for sale. I am easily undone but by then, I’m gone. I’m a lender of lighters, a hangover survivor. I’m a terrible liar. In the shadow of thin-walled, whitewashed stone fabric, in the city of pre-worn, torn, pre-bought denim. I am the hand that grasps and longs and the one left suspended when all is withdrawn. I’m the crack in the altar, a stone statue waxed over. I’m a kid at the opera. I’m a terrible liar.

I'd rather be broken than empty

Time, time is a fickle thing
Let's see what it can bring
I cannot leave you behind
Time, time's running out
My hands, oh give me your hands
I cannot leave you behind

We are going to get out of here
Run from all the fears

What if?

What if our hard work ends in despair?
What if the road won't take me there?
What if to love and be loved's not enough?
What if I fall and can't bear to get up?
Oh, I wish, for once, we could stay gold