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    You say the worst is over now
    all you have to do is blink
    the drying time is 5 hours
    and you're crying over the kitchen sink
    and you're trying to make sure
    all the brushes are thoroughly washed
    from that room you had to repaint
    cause all your memories of it are lost

    and they're flying kites in Atlanta now
    in a park as trains go by
    and the train is a daily serpent
    people swallow
    just trying to get on with their lives

    and in that room
    is industrial grade carpet
    tormented by teething furniture feet
    and the bedframe is hiding a torrid little secret
    that coos at you in your terminable sleep
    you hate to be the doom of your own party
    so you're going to get out of bed
    the stalemate is leaning on your doorbell
    delivering all the things that were said

    they're flying kites in Seattle now
    in a park as you walk bay
    and you tap them on the shoulder and ask
    "how do they fly?"

    you're flying a kite in San Francisco now,
    in a park as he walks by.

    Cosa ne pensi di "Kites" di Emily Picha?

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