Glass is cold against my face
I am frozen in my place
Colored lines in steady rows
Tell the way the traffic goes
I am the map of eighty two
Tracing paths of gold and blue
Counting ghosts on empty floors
Waiting by the closing doors
Coffee stains upon my edge
Pushed against a concrete ledge
Steel rails hum a heavy song
Where the tired crowds belong
I am the map of eighty two
Tracing paths of gold and blue
Counting ghosts on empty floors
Waiting by the closing doors
Old men read the morning news
Worn out soles and scuffed up shoes
They don't see the ink has bled
Or the things the legends said
I am the map of eighty two
Tracing paths of gold and blue
Counting ghosts on empty floors
Waiting by the closing doors
Stations gone and tunnels closed
Secret routes that no one knows
I remember every bend
Until the iron reaches end
Now the last train leaves the light
Leaving me to face the night
Ink is fading on the page
Like a bird inside a cage
I am the map of eighty two
Tracing paths of gold and blue
Counting ghosts on empty floors
Waiting by the closing doors
Gold and blue Just for you Paper grid
Where we hid
