Frames Frames Frames

Spending the best years of a childhood horizontal on the floor

Like a bobsled minus the teamwork and the televised support



And nothing sounds appealing



Someone retired on a percentage of the tithe that paved these roads

They lead to nowhere but they're still gridlocked, made of Solomon's pure gold

Beneath the door frame waiting for earthquakes after the rapture comes and goes

The saints went marching, the trumpets salving, the chosen ones are phoning home



And nothing sounds appealing