Текст: 10-4 Eleanor. More Tree Metaphors.

My mind's at home here in this cold November breeze.
This frost, it stabs my skin, and grays the branches of these trees.
My breath is a ghost as it wafts out of my aching lungs.
You leave my barely breathing.

I've got to let it out while I've got the breath left in me.
I'm grasping for a grain of truth.
The very sight of you cuts off the airflow to my brain.
You're a stroke of genius, girl; this stroke's for you.

Time bears a crippling intimidation.
It's only second to your eyes.
I bear a devilish infatuation
It's always looming right behind.

It's getting old waking to frozen dawns and unused sheets.
The truths of matters can't be beat by curiosity.
My shadow's digging holes that I can never fill alone.
It leaves me slowly wilting.

I've got to make my peace before I bury my ambition.
I hope I'm not reaching in vein.
And if I am, I'll lay me down and you'll shine on forever.
I'll be but deeds done in your name.