Cloud Nine Rains Down

Cloud nine rains down
The souls of this loveless town;
Welcoming shadows—shadows that will be
The grail’s path of mystery.

The graves are shallow, Cloud Nine
I cannot tell which home is mine.
Each is marked by some desire
Reached to fall as you sailed higher.

II

There is a budding, but no flower
As rides sweet the springtide hour—
The hand leads but no men follow;
Their spirits in tatters with newfound beds hollow.

They are dead, we are dead
Ring! Ring! Ring the funeral bell
We are dead but we cannot tell,
For we stir in our bed
And our bosoms yet swell.

They have died, we have died
Let the mourners beat the drum.
Though in our eyes they reside
And they are who we run from.

They fly, we fly
But our wings are wrought of stone.
Our tears reaching, reaching to the sky
To the graves we beautify
Where our wish on the commit has flown.

They are free, we are free
Free upon the crippling chain
Whose specter whispers promisingly
We shall fly again.