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.