Run. Now.

 
on the reverse side of this wall
the snow begins to flow and thaw
and with it creeps a lonely thought
that I should leave and be thus forgot

in spring there comes the small red bird
who'll shine no whiter for being washed
and in his song i thought i heard
something found that wasn't lost

a fuel that will never drive me home
but burns inside my eyes and throat
it feeds my thirst and keeps me warm
but holds me under, lest i float

it whispers in my ear to go
and wander far as eye can see
it begs as does the open door
that i be free
that i be free.