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.
