We’re on our own and we’re out tonight We’re on our own and we feel alright The way home
The way home is a lonely road Through the concrete jungle Through the misery of dreams Along the ridge of despair and broken dreams With the odd drunken buzzard In the desert of sound
In the cemetery, imagination runs wild Desolate, cyclopean cities emerge From the mists of time From a place where time indeed has no meaning And aeons of visions shatters with arrows of passing eras
It is here I find myself most often A living amongst the dead And a dead amongst the living On cobblestones made of dreams And gravel churned from twilight souls In bitter hope of the past Destroyed like Nagasaki And rebuilt like Hiroshima
Forever glowing in the minds eye And suffering the agonizing horrors By slowly dwindling away To be remembered no more
The trees along the dark alleys Whisper of forbidden fruit The reaper turns in his harvest From the all too proud population
This is truly the city of the dead And it is here we all live
All as one
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