Death from Above - The Jazz June

The kids are asleep in the garden

As the world declines to agree

And brings their guns to point blank range

Their sleeping heads are filled with dreams

That will never come

That will never live at point blank range

Lying to ourselves

That we can’t still believe

In questions and answers that don’t come with exceptions

Of the truth and bursting hope

The size of a small fist

Grabbing for things too high still to reach

The sun digs its fingers into the wavy sand

And steals the heat as it rises and declines, rises and declines