It’s gotten old now.
The curtains are purple and the rips cruise on the outlines of the material, expensive silk,
drifting through the home, the rust of the atomsphere sings in the air.
The old wooden tables pushed back against the windows
O’ they look rather lonely, the chairs crying to be seated on.
Where’s the owners?
They’ve deserted the house they built.
Young lovers who at first were attracted to the dance of their quiet souls.
Young lovers’ who were calling eachother from afar, O’ why leave a home a deserted place like so?
Where are you young lovers?
The garden is calling for your sweet flowers to blossom, and the smiles of sweet babies to roll along in the beautiful nature.
Young lovers, why are you hiding?
Its not rotting just yet but if you desert it for much longer will not the bricks become tired and fall in?
Will not the stairs creak and scatter step by step?
How about the taps, will the pipes not burst and no water will be left running through?
Young lovers come back.
The House is calling you, it needs you.
Young lovers come back, you need you.
Young lovers enter into your home.
Young lovers don’t leave the home, alone.