Robert Four

What it means to fly, within a screaming gale, no use trying to lie, in my bones, I don't need a trial, to find myself alone, studying a time, when all measures fail, and you search for style, can we atone, or do we always fail, when shame drags us home, flip a coin to the sky, talk of finding sail, I always leave this way, drink wine from broken cones, search for desolate mail, throw stones at ghosts, they say it's worse than jail, forsaken all the while, when you hit the trail, brightened by a smile.