If the stars are my future the moon is my past
She glows so that small suns are all but masked
I know they're there, but what could be worth
Hurting when I am not even hurt?
The things in the basement
Will never collect dust
Move them to the attic
Adjust
Forward looking back
Future past I lack
The haze of years of days
I choose to bear that cross
The ghost images I choose never to degauss
Obsolete machine with heavy glass screen
Colors the darkness, flashes in between
Static snow, it falls
Lengthening the halls
Still she calls