"why've you gone?"

my mouth is tired of explanations.
old friends, old follies, old fences to mend.
my tools have been turned to another cause.
my thoughts have grown short,
as my words have grown long.
i'm building, building: up, up, up.
looking for new days, new frames;
new tricks for old dogs.

the cement cakes on my fingertips,
making them too wide to dial home.
to a place i fell so wounded low,
and then ran out on my own.
those ghosts, those demons,
we all call them what we may:
but mine have been held off so long,
that i'm starting to forget their names.

because i fled this time a year ago,
to a land that was desolate and stale.
no record shops or acid drops,
just a place where hopeless bail.
i drew up new plans on paper.
etched them deep inside my hands.
then followed them precisely.
no sweat to understand.

so now i stand upon the scene.
building, changing, growing.
as a man, a ghost, a once dead prince,
who got by with never knowing.
soon they'll get the best of me,
catching me on the railroad ties.
those ghosts i shed so long ago,
will again look me in the eyes.

and they will ask me, "why have you gone?"
and they will laugh the whole night long.
and they will ask me, "why've you gone?"
and they will shake the whole night long.