Clear
the windows of st christopher's
aren't stained glass anymore
they took them out and filled them up
put bars upon the door
the lights are on but there's no-one at home
the wheels that you would die for
keep rolling down that road
there are limitations on your time
the salvation of each moment's on the line
there's no-one at home
you'll find you will only feel
what we've all agreed upon
about what's consensually real
about the prizes to be won
clear to the left; clear to the right
clear just about anywhere that isn't out of sight
the lights are on but there's no-one at home
the hypnotist has done his work
where the least of aspirations lurk
and the onion tastes so sweet
I would not trust myself to know
the choices that will let you grow
I sit by my convictions
nothing would surprise me anymore
the lights are on