On a tree my leaves would grow, but bitter torrents have stripped the sew and I'm pissed off at the High Street now for taking down their signage just because of a roue.
Come out your stores and feed us fat, licentious nests of dying streeter cats. Why hold onto what's gone in the morning, if night is night then life to be lived is strife without warning
I've held onto what scorched my soul, my hands softer than ever before. I can wake and hear the distant guilt but really it was worth the manifold wilt.
I could believe my own if it weren't such a stench, to know I'm a flower that's rotting on a fence - while the bitter cold sweeps round about me, seed or not sown, my life is but just bounty
So speak this word of words long lost, tell me a spell that burns the frost - I want more than my soul can share to burst wide open free from the tare.
I was meant to write so much softer - my hope that this death and guilt tarry less and less ofter. Hope - a four letter phrase that fills my mouth but rots like mais, ever darker but never dismayed
So have your cult and eat it too on altars built by soft hands only a few, a soul that scorched others refrain and led the slaughter towards an oncoming train
I 'll have what's lost, it's better than yorn - a life so full of roue and scorn. Judgement makes my life a little bit easier, an enemy who's a saint - wrapped in blood as salvation gets queasier
I'd like remove my continuous flare but life is night and without out it - I'd be over there
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