(lay down, take the blood out of your skin)nnon the subject of this declinenthis wasn't exactly what I had in mindnriding on the last legs of every lienlooking for the truth until it struck me blindnnbut every yearnwe waste with searchingnfor a higher purposenthan what we've been givennntrapped in the suburbs I'm pining for the airntake me back to Washington squarenlooking for escape roots like mining for oilnI only find symmetry beneath the soil