I swipe the dust from an old book, cover our bed with a blanket, words help me to contain myself, words! help me to contain myself
there's a ghost haunting your belongings, it's no better that the story is archived on the mind's back shelf.
'cause she has seen those things before me, ironed his shirts and made coffee, said he could make it to the base, rubbed his feet so he could go on with his race. did he ever call her \"maus\"?
all the secrets of the house turn it into a graveyard, tombstones, dates unknown. sweet, sweet lady, where've you gone?
how many trees have you outgrown? how many dreams have you let go?
she's screaming, \"YOU'RE THE NEXT to be laid to rest.\"
all is silent, only the washing machine goes in cycles, waiting for her to cut in. I remember I found her ring in the bin.
with her name of a candy-pie she puts blood on my hands, sets my mind of fire. Black One, nonexistent, dead or alive,
she hasn't really found her peace. her mocking memory's at ease. glasses askew, hair like wild waves, out from beyond her imaginary grave
she's screaming, \"YOU'RE THE NEXT to be laid to rest.\"