The Trees Were Mistaken

This is a story, some kind of a story
This is a story about, about a boy and girl
A girl and a boy, a boy, boy, boy
Only flighting
That some boy in the dark while he learned to evoke
Inverted crystal mountain kind of a story

This is a story
Man, about the serifs and ciphers that the scholars deciphered
Translations of sanskrit
Just as my handwritten story

This is a story where the singers begin to appear
In the spaces between all the dashes and braces
In the moth-bitten story
Of getting left behind
This is a story

Some kind of a story
With the pages distressed, sins you held to your chest
They were mangled and dog eared, while the rest were just mangy and glory
This is a story about the memory of water
Translating the sound of the traffic
Remember the traffic?
It's making you carsick all along southfield freeway

And translating mistakes and the trees were mistaken
And the trees for the woods and the sound of the trash
For the sound of the blowing leaves along the southfield freeway

My name is a blackbird, and the breast is a two tone
Feathers are warm in molasses
Twisting the words from the silence to gasses
Now I don't have worry of making it
It's so unclear
Am I dead or am I dying
Or am I simply tired of crying?

My name is a blackbird, and the breast is a two tone
Feathers are warm in molasses
Twisting the words from the silence to gasses
Now I don't have worry of making it
It's so unclear
Am I dead or am I dying
Or am I simply tired of crying?
My name is a blackbird