Death from Above

The kids are asleep in the garden
As the world declines to agree
And lifts its guns to point-blank range
Their sleeping heads are filled with dreams
That will never live, that will never come

Lying to ourselves, that we can still believe
In questions and answers that don't come with exceptions
Of the truth and bursting hope
The size of a small hand while
Reaching for things too short still to reach

The sun digs its fingers all in the wavy sand
In the wavy sand, and steals the heat
As it rises, and it rises and, rises and, rises and declines

The kids are asleep
As the world declines to agree
And lifts its guns to point-blank range

Lying to ourselves, that we can still believe
In questions and answers that don't come with exceptions
Of the truth and bursting hope
The size of a small fist while
Grabbing for things too short still to reach