In the Trees

We are puppets, hang from trees
As the wind will knock our sorry knees
Together if it so chooses
And it always does, given the chance
Which it always is, just happenstance
But we try to decode wherefore it blew

And as we swing, we realize
We're property of vicious skies
That won't let us go
As easily as we might like
To roam the earth immortalized
But we are but shaking 'round our bones

So we see that
Pain is relative
Fate is politics
Death is made of promises
I swear that's all it is

The Erie Canal runs through my town
It was a beautiful thing until someone drowned
Last summer, now all we see
Is a thing over which our cars must pass
Each morning when we hit the gas
Toward things we hate but just must be

Pain is relative
Fate is politics
Death is made of promises
I swear that's all it is

All death is untimely
If you're asking the deceased
But they're all a bit biased, if you ask me
I know there are no right answers
But I'm sure that this one's wrong
That's why I'm out of hopeful songs

Pain is relative
Fate is politics
Death is made of promises
That's all anything is