Open vs. Closed

Feet and roads and splinters seem to carve a crooked map

All the walls are made from stone, and we paint with blood and scraps

If we don't take this safely from our heads straight to your door

Then who will understand us when our bodies hit the floor?

We stray in all directions, but we see the world in color

Without their disregard, we wouldn't fill our minds up fuller

I like the subtlety of glances, and the shallowness of people

Or the way they justify themselves, down below their steeples

But in their lonely, little glass bowls, they piece their lives together

Us, we live in shattered jars, under shards to beat the weather

Life seems much to simple to suggest that we aren't linked

All the ones who've questioned it, or don't know what to think