Black Balloons

Dara awakes like some kind of snake

She slithers across the afternoon

Mind in a twist, she notices her wrist

Tied to a string of black balloons, that's right

Tragedy, it's not what it seems

Late at night, we walk through our dreams

Down on the pavement, Dara displays

Her brand-new balloons to lookers-on

They shake their heads, "She's at it again"

She isn't impressing anyone

No one

No one

Tragedy, it's not what it seems

Late at night, we walk through our dreams

Quantifying some other way

Just to find it's all the same

It's all the same

It's all the same