Crystal Skies and December Smoke


These hands of mine, they hold more than wistful wishes


These hands of mine, they can dance and spin and scream aloud.


Wider and deeper than empty echoes in bottleneck bottles


The glass cuts deep, but the whispers cut deeper.


They tell me harder


more and more, further and farther


The crystal skies and December smoke tell me to forget them


The heart's lullaby tells me to remember the better ones


These hands of mine, the blisters and calluses will only strengthen their grip


I squeeze tighter, closer.


They took my voice


and replaced it with snowfall's touch


They took my eyes


and filled its void with rainy day clouds


It's all alright.


They can have them


These hands of mine, they will speak and see for me.


Mother tells me


I have climbed high enough


Come home, baby girl, come home.


Empty echoes in bottleneck bottles


These hands of mine, they shatter the glass


and it rains. Oh like the stars from above.


Mama tells baby girl she won't catch the stars for her


You'll have to grab them yourself


These hand of mine, they build a ladder from words and scars


from midnight lessons and last minute review


from the strach of pen upon paper and the tap of fingers upon keys


from restless nights and dreams of tomorrow.


And up she climbs, higher and higher


her breath turns to smoke


her fingers curl tighter


the whispers grow fainter


And I wonder


What are the stars to me


If I have crystals skies that glitter and shine.

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