ride in the car during a bright midnight,
light pouring out the sides of our smoke filled plight,
we ride free to believe whatever we need
in the face of fright and a long lost delight

the noble salesman places silver beads
in calloused hands and offers strands of grief,
slumped over nuns decide to deride
the rider's dance when the day vanishes from the tomb of midnight

ghost weavers jump into glaring scenes
emboldened by glimmering heat and the pure blue dream,
while the frantic priest erupts into
the musicians fuel for torches made out of jewels