On golden bridges
silver flowers turn of no use,
the golden town whistles
when a poor creature
yells at god, asking for the truth.

Everyone cries in a different room.

Brothels start to mingle
with univerisities,
showing off
the glorified diversity of youth.
And on they go, so empty inside,
and yet getting as full:

-Theres some emptiness there boy
and the need to turn loose-
Lost causes dry out in lost choices. 
And as time surrenders
voices speak out
to sound like you.

As far as I remember
memories dont go far:
They always stop by the corner
where the wind blows,
and the wind is all they have.