The Trees Were Mistaken

This is a story, some kind of a story
 This is a story about, about a boy and girl
 A girl and a boy, a boy, boy, boy
 Only flighting
 That some boy in the dark while he learned to evoke
 Inverted crystal mountain kind of a story
 This is a story
 Man, about the serifs and ciphers that the scholars deciphered
 Translations of sanskrit
 Just as my handwritten story
 This is a story where the singers begin to appear
 In the spaces between all the dashes and braces
 In the moth-bitten story
 Of getting left behind
 This is a story
 Some kind of a story
 With the pages distressed, sins you held to your chest
 They were mangled and dog eared, while the rest were just mangy and glory
 This is a story about the memory of water
 Translating the sound of the traffic
 Remember the traffic?
 It's making you carsick all along southfield freeway
 And translating mistakes and the trees were mistaken
 And the trees for the woods and the sound of the trash
 For the sound of the blowing leaves along the southfield freeway
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 My name is a blackbird, and the breast is a two tone
 Feathers are warm in molasses
 Twisting the words from the silence to gasses
 Now I don't have worry of making it
 It's so unclear
 Am I dead or am I dying
 Or am I simply tired of crying?
 My name is a blackbird, and the breast is a two tone
 Feathers are warm in molasses
 Twisting the words from the silence to gasses
 Now I don't have worry of making it
 It's so unclear
 Am I dead or am I dying
 Or am I simply tired of crying?
 My name is a blackbird