Body upon body lies dead in its grave;
some hope for salvation, something to save.
With rum in their eyes, they lick up their wounds,
too hopeless to live, too tired to care,
to witness this sight, to feel the despair;
and now in my own world, I feel nothing but fear.
I look to you for hope,
but you are no longer there
and now that you've left me
I can see it's true,
the death of me is the death of you.
In an old attic lies miles of horror,
painted in memories, too fresh to spoil.
Color stained hands and crippling
lungs couldn't shelter
the world from what it had become.
History survived on the lines of your face;
I weep for your glances, your tired gate.
As the time passes I will
come to see that your taste
for life was an inspiration to me.
How can it be that everything
that comes to me is nothing more than an illusion.
Down a broken road I travel,
picking melodies that seem to shatter;
these stones are weapons always thrown in my direction.
