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 men 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 am a church, And I'm burning down You are on my mind...