Invaders walking in my house
their armies stepping forward fighting with a butter knife
and one by one I’ll put them down,
they ask me for a number
and all I do is close another door
in a memory that’s deeper than before,
bringing out the silence I don’t feel a hero anymore
the half moon in my hand is a killer
but my soul starts to forget,
sitting at the longest table I get only half-full plates
familiar faces roaming make a party I don’t get
blonde hair turned to fire just a glance before it sat
while getting drunk on coffee I do wear the hat,
but mornings in the sky are certainly the worst
dreams are left to die before they find a place to nest
and little things is what I have
when the wild hearts go to rest…