Black Balloons

Dara awakes like some kind of snake She slithers across the afternoon Mind in a twist, she notices her wrist Tied to a string of black balloons, that's right Tragedy, it's not what it seems Late at night we walk through our dreams Down on the pavement, Dara displays Her brand new balloons to lookers-on They shake their heads, "She's at it again" She isn't impressing anyone No one No one Tragedy, it's not what it seems Late at night we walk through our dreams Quantifying some other way Just to find it's all the same It's all the same It's all the same