Turn back the time to that last hour
when we first lost our inner child.
We read, in black,
conflicted facts,
and now you're
a song borne within the wind's lost art of innocence.
When transgressions faded,
we turned the coals
upon our hearts with weighted love.
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A funny time to retrace lives,
for here comes
a song borne within the wind's lost art of innocence.
Every time we come up, hoping for some fresh air,
we look amongst the cobwebs and pray we not get caught there,
lying in disaster,
realizing all that matters
to the heart is to be known and to be loved.
Oh, but don't you be as easily fooled
for they'll come to make you buy in too.
If the conscience of America
is a dollar earned,
then there's no love. And we'll become
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