Margin
It's in the margin of inertia's gauzy exaltation
It's always harboring the need for some preoccupation
He brought his borders forth across the mossy forest floor
And I bury these messages, 'cause this form is mine not his.

Realign my thoroughfares, they may not be just what he's wanting
That's okay, the one I'm on is good enough to keep the hours counting
Don't let the ardor cease, or trivialize the rising sea
And I hide these missives to prove this is mine, not his

With a lack of fanfare and lack of source
Dreams and barriers settle the course
Deadened nerves become cold to the touch
Forgo feeding the fire too much

If he's to place our salvation behind some weathered doorway
He may distract us with the details laid into its carpentry