I thought you knew what is best for me. I couldn't be more wrong.
Time's still moving on. It pulls me. It consumes me.
How can time heal us, and still make my face grow long with age?
Like a clock with lungs, and it's springs exposed, time heals me, time rusts me.
It's hard to believe that wood and springs will age me, and could phase me.
From here on in it's a one way road for me.
My life runs like clock work, and my heart tick days away.
So here's to the callas that comes with time.
May it slowly stop the pain.
A round white face with matte black hands.
It's fragile, yet can't be broke.
From here on in it's a one way road for me.
My life runs like clock work, and my heart tick days away.
I could never let go of what I never controlled.
I feel it in my bones. All hollow and blistering cold.
I thought you knew what is best for me. I couldn't be more wrong.
I thought you knew what is best for me. I couldn't be more wrong.
