Turn off the porch light, the darkness is like ink
And our lives are like paper;
There must still be something left to write.
I can't tell you how often I have dreamed of the dead,
Dreams that are more like small visits.
Do you find it hard to really trust people?
Aren't there some secrets that you are willing to carry
All the way to the grave?
When the porch light goes off, do the lives of the moths
Still have meaning, or are they lost and confused?
Searching for something and they don't even know what?
Don't close the windows tonight,
If someone is coming in, just let them.
The breeze is so very nice.
I never wanted to live forever anyway.