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August cries in her sleep detached and unconscious,August cries in her sleep detached and unconscious
August cries in her sleep detached and unconscious, The moon plays tricks on her, twisting her conscience, While June sits out on a windowsill while acting so pompous, And the white tailed wind delays its correspondence. It’s just a call between the soul, And I’m sat here unravelling the unknown, So I’ll have to do what I’m told, But I know well fully and truly that it’s not leading to gold. Just waiting for July to talk to her lover through the night, And if I sit here and close my eyes, the station still flickers with light.
August runs down to the bus station, running late for her fairy, Single minded academics estimate that her post cards will vary, Though if she tries so hard to lock it up she will grow far too wary, And June collects her postage stamps, she won’t fly, she’s not scared, she, Is begging out on the street, For something new to meet, And before she gets to speak, You can hear the rattle and the tattle in the sleet. You can hear the fear in the sound of her voice through the fog, But I haven’t heard her whispers on the station in so long.
July she sits and flies over yonder as witness, To make sure the trial isn’t covertly sabotaged with sickness, And changing the library’s order to vary by thickness, But the judge and the librarian both write with unbelievable fitness. And the dog is forced to howl, As the undertaker growls, And death is on the prowl, As the verdict handed down is most utterly foul. But still June and August rely on the telling of time, And it’s the station, that I think of, that remains in my mind.
June she waits longing, hoping to live our her dreaming, But she resists all her urges to wait for attributions of meaning, And the masterful prophets of playful parasitic plans are leaning, Across the chairs that leave July and August waiting and gleaming. But she doesn’t want to trade, Her eyes that were handmade, Her vision soon will fade, But she wants her grand parade, She barks at the stars for misaligning her mistakes, And it’s the image, of the station, that I cannot replace.
The orphaned mother rests under shelter of quiet, And outside rages the peaceful war in a riot, And the indoors smell like something is living inside it, Refusing to accept that any of its inhabitants will diet, The candle burns through its watch, And the dancers drink their scotch, While the opposite hands all cough, Until thinking itself results in dying or having had enough. The streetlights stand screaming through the dimly lit hums, And it is always, for the station, that my dreams succumb.
The cheerleading barbershop sextuplet twins all live out in anger, When August writes her sun lit dreams out in couplets of slander, And she’s hated by June who refuses to connect with her candour, And July hopes that none of the wrong grammar ties will cause rancour. As the jewellery slides on, The fingers they’re about to pawn, Hoping it will never be gone, The rings are drawn of honest cons, And feelings that they can’t withdraw And nothing worth dwelling upon For their sun never breaks the dawn Still it feels yes it feels so truly and utterly wrong And I feel that it’s not any use even bothering to entwine, For the longing, of the station, will always be mine.
August weeps in her sleep, feeling lost and unaware, The moon deceives her, twisting her sense of right and wrong, While June sits on the windowsill, acting all high and mighty, And the gentle wind holds back its messages. It's merely a connection between spirits, And here I am, trying to make sense of the mysteries, So I must follow the orders given to me, Yet I know deep down that this won't lead to anything valuable. Just waiting for July to have a late-night chat with her love, And if I close my eyes here, the station still glows dimly.
August rushes to the bus station, late for her magical ride, Focused scholars predict that her letters will differ, But if she locks her feelings away, she'll become overly cautious, And June gathers her stamps, she won't take flight, she's unafraid, Pleading for help on the street, For something fresh to discover, And before she can express herself, You can hear the clatter and gossip in the icy rain. You can sense her fear in the tone of her voice through the mist, But I haven't caught her whispers at the station in ages.
July sits and soars above as an observer, Ensuring the trial isn't secretly undermined by illness, And rearranging the library's system based on thickness, But both the judge and librarian write with remarkable skill. And the dog is compelled to howl, While the undertaker growls, And death lurks nearby, As the judgment delivered is truly repugnant. Yet June and August still depend on the passage of time, And it's the station that lingers in my thoughts.
June waits with longing, wishing to fulfill her dreams, But she fights against her impulses to wait for meanings to emerge, And the skilled seers of whimsical schemes lean in, Across the seats that leave July and August waiting and shining. But she doesn't wish to exchange, Her eyes that were crafted with care, Her sight will soon diminish, But she desires her grand celebration, She calls out to the stars for misaligning her errors, And it's the image of the station that I can't replace.
The abandoned mother finds peace under a quiet shelter, Outside, a calm conflict unfolds amidst the chaos of a protest, Inside, there's a scent suggesting life is present within these walls, Denying the idea that anyone living here will go hungry, The candle continues to burn as time passes, While the performers enjoy their drinks of whisky, As the opposing sides clear their throats, Until thoughts lead to exhaustion or reaching a breaking point. The streetlights shout through the softly buzzing darkness, And my dreams always yield to the station's pull.
The enthusiastic barbershop sextuplet twins express their frustrations, As August pens her bright dreams in lines filled with gossip, And June despises her for not engaging with her honesty, While July wishes that no misunderstandings will create bitterness. As the ornaments glide into place, The hands are ready to sell their possessions, Wishing that nothing will ever be lost, The rings are crafted from genuine deceptions, And emotions they cannot take back, And there's nothing significant to reflect on, Because their light never brings the morning, Yet it feels, indeed it feels so completely and utterly wrong, And I sense that it’s pointless to even try to connect, For the yearning for the station will forever belong to me.