Fog on the Glass

One rare morning I awake
And in some not small part of me I'm shook by a feeling of grace
A feeling of grace

Rain may patter, the wind may hiss
But it's not so much forgetting
Relics that clung to me loose their grip
They loose their grip

And we're all composed of some old beliefs
You can't make little cuts, until you feel clean
Of your memories
And if you ever feel
When you're looking back
It would make you sick
To get past the past just breathe quick
And cough 'til you fog up the glass
'Til you fog up the glass
'Til you fog up the glass

You can smooth the wood
Sand down the burl
But to a certain extent, our history is irrevocable
Irrevocable

After all this hand-wringing
There's still shifts in my breast
My old body, new body, a cognate misleading at best

And if you ever feel
When you're looking back
It would make you sick
To get past the past just breathe quick
Until you fog up the glass
'Til you fog up the glass
'Til you fog up the glass