hanging around my neck
like a noose collar,
but as I embark
on the next sea of dreams
I am running out of ways
to forget her.
All the streets of Hollywood are quiet
just like Christmas Day,
and I am hanging on by neck,
swaying in the wind
of what could've been,
but will never be,
and the sound fades distant through the wall.
Looking through stained glass windows,
I see the bastard future
rising to the wild sky,
except yesterland won't let me go,
and the only thing holding me back
is the ocean of not-knowing
just past the sea of never-will.