The scent is bitter and sallow but sweet
Chemicals a flood raging against the air as rocks
while she burns another hole in the sheet
Down where the bus doesn’t stop anymore
The dogs are old, scattered like litter
They range across the grass with rheumy eyes
to compliment the mismatched, hunched figures
who will follow their friends in time
Close to where the bus doesn’t stop anymore
If you want to look into an abyss
Look at a kid around here, with their knowledge
All the grief of that known to the wise
But here it’s flipping stolen cars, not college
Or burning holes at the edge of town
Where the ivy grew through the roof and in rain you’ll drown
Down where the bus doesn’t stop anymore
If you follow the graves to the end of the row
You’ll find the things we lost, kept alive
What we took with us, after they left us anyway
You’ll see a reason to survive
Out here where a wasteland is a meadow
The reeds choking on plastic
Clinging to life the way a bird holds the sky
Close to where the bus doesn’t stop anymore
