What, then, do I do to make you something

When all I take from you is my own refelction?

And when the day has all but forgotten me,

How, then, do I hold you with my blunted hands?



I have made an end; take me home again

And I'll leave my shoes at your door.

Show me another room, somehwere

I can call my own;

And though you have built a wall around you,

I am standing on the inside.



Now here I face the long-fading road again

And the familiar fall of my old shadows,

But if I'm to show you

Something, anything that's true,

I can draw from only what I know;



And I'm starting on the inside.



There's not life enough

Under the in-between.