On the wayward,
you find yourself about to pull it off.
Leave your things, leave your stuff.
But when will you get there?
How will you know
if you haven’t been this wayward before?
Just how deep does the rabbit hole go?
Sail on, skipper, no sight of shore because we’re
Window seat, right on a wing.
Picture moves across a screen,
shapes and sounds, but what’s it mean?
Just this one or many things: we’re wayward.
And what if everything fell right in place?
Triple bulls-eye, endless grace?
The mirror illuminates your face
for thirteen nights, for thirteen nights,
Coma along, we’re already on the way-ward.