let the night wash away

all the hours of sadness and doubt.

Like a dirty old shirt,

we’re awash in work dirt

and we can’t leave ’til they let us out.

We must turn into shadows

and hide in the trees,

let the breeze and the seas build our map.

First we’ll split into sevens,

and then into threes

and we’ll leave one behind as a trap.

No, they’ll not find our bones

and they won’t trace our phones,

we won’t leave behind any I.D.

Then we’ll grow into nines

and do great things with vines.

We’ll be out on our own history.