Death from Above

The kids are asleep in the garden
As the world declines to agree
And brings their guns to point blank range
Their sleeping heads are filled with dreams
That will never come
That will never live at point blank range
Lying to ourselves
That we can't still believe
In questions and answers that don't come with exceptions
Of the truth and bursting hope
The size of a small fist
Grabbing for things too high still to reach
The sun digs its fingers into the wavy sand
And steals the heat as it rises and declines, rises and declines