Only covered in a shroud to hide from the past.
Moments are like scars in the winter snow,
black asphalt peeking up towards the melting sun.
Like the lines on your back, tracing towards the lip of tommorow.
Scattered, massive prisons of hope.
Only wearing this shroud to prevent detective work.
What can you tell from just the daggers eyes?
Killing in the casino, killing in the pharmacy,
Lady luck is a water sprite, amused in despair.
Love settles on the eastern wind,
as the sidewalks cracks, once whole becomes broken,
and the old man crumbles, his hands weathered, worn.
Only thing left under the shroud is a dream once promised.