The Postcard

This is a postcard

Saying I'm alright in this beautiful city

This is a phone call

Saying, yes, I am sleeping alone here

But the telephone lines are cut

My hands can't hold the paper

You are on my mind

Nobody knows your name here,

Except when the moon is out

And then they toss in their sleep

Crying out for you to take them

But me I cannot sleep,

I cannot dream,

My heart is shattered

You are on my mind

Once seven colors used to make a man blind

And now we are like birds stuck in barbed wire

Precise, like sunrise

A child just like any other

Made of the bones of the earth

Fragile and deathless

Yes, I'm alright

I'm a church,

And I'm burning down

You are on my mind...