I lay down right where I fell, cold grass in my face.
And I hear the traffic, like the rhythm of the tides.
And I stare at the scrape on the heel of my hand
Til it doesn't sting so much and until the bloods dried.
And when somebody asks if I'm okay,
I don't know what to say.
And along the highway...
Where unlucky stray dogs bleed.
Wild sage growing in the weeds
And I hear the traffic, like the rhythm of the tides.
And I stare at the scrape on the heel of my hand
Til it doesn't sting so much and until the bloods dried.
And when somebody asks if I'm okay,
I don't know what to say.
And along the highway...
Where unlucky stray dogs bleed.
Wild sage growing in the weeds
Thursday: [Wild Sage - The Mountain Goats]
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