Creased edges on a faded map
Held tight in a velvet trap
Lines of blue and lines of red
Where the city secrets tread
He watches from a plastic chair
Cold midnight in the humid air
Oil stains on the asphalt gray
Waiting for the break of day
Folded lines of eighty two
Painted in a ghostly hue
Swaying in a waltz of gold
Stories that the stations hold
The humming of a distant light
Cutting through the heavy night
Tires spin on a gravel road
Carrying a heavy load
Folded lines of eighty two
Painted in a ghostly hue
Swaying in a waltz of gold
Stories that the stations hold
Ink is blurring on the page
Like a bird inside a cage
Tension pulls the paper thin
Where the lonely nights begin
A single key turns in a lock
Counting down the ticking clock
Chrome bumpers in a steady row
Watching as the headlights glow
He traces paths of iron rail
Looking for a hidden trail
Steel and glass and velvet blue
Searching for a way to you
Folded lines of eighty two
Painted in a ghostly hue
Swaying in a waltz of gold
Stories that the stations hold
Paper transit line.
Swaying in the gold.
Eighty two.
