The iron coloured peaks
Are no longer perfect
The webs in her labyrinth
Are no longer restless
She holds time like a pen
And says she'll make me free
She holds me like I'm hers
But her paper cuts age me
I'm surrounded by her pages
By the crowds and the serpents
By the soil and the bird nests
I cried to the Sun
And she rained in response
I begged for one more
But she took me home
She holds life by a thread
Just a name on her pages
She holds me like I'm hers
But just like the rest it ages