The Lovers
Up from the pastures of boredomout from the sea of discontentthey come in packs like hungry houndsUp seekers of the dark enchantment.
They haunt the boulevards and barsthey pray to wishing wells and starsthey ride the hurricane of hopenot looking back but on they gotoward the distance and deceivingand all the while they keep believingthey are special and apartthe lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers.
And when they pair off two by twothey feel they are the chosen fewand though their beds are made of strawthey feel like velvet in the nightand so the night is never endingits made of distance and pretendingcoz they're special and apartthe lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers.
And when love goes awayand when love goes...goodbye...catches in their throats like cottonrises in their hearts like rainthe good times suddenly are all forgottenthe hunt begins again.
They search the subways and the streetstheir faces tired, like their feettheir bodies aching to be warmand so they hide behind the moontheir loneliness inside them growingbut they take comfort in just knowingthat they are special and apartthe lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers
And when love comes againand when love comeshello...rises from their throats like singingcatches in their hearts like windthe good thingsstrangers in their arms are bringingmakes life all right again.
They turn their faces to the lightno longer hiding in the nightso unashamed and unafraidthat they can face each others faultsand though the waltz will have its endingthere is no harm in just pretendingthat they are special and apartthe lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers.