Off The Map, Under The Sun

It rains on and off while air is so thick and nervous
As if someone was spying a distance away and waiting for something to begin
Begin or end
But where the hell are they going?
With empty string bags
As they hurry like phantoms with their way among the living lost
Just sun-white bones on the streets

It's a distance away
The smallest imaginable flicker
A sign of hope
While confusion seems to come along with the raind and the sun
A call for the lost

On the streets but en route to nowhere
But then again, do you need to, if you're but a sun-white bone
And hung out like a bear skin to dry