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scatter the roots of our passage tonight |
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discard the memories we chose to survive |
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all of our sense overshadowed by a song |
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pining for strength and deprive from the strong |
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when she was five years old there's cake and brightlights |
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and when she was ten she became the maid's bride |
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with temperance and beauty and salvation unknown |
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a life isolated, heinous and young |
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stand up and face it although you're half dead |
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try to remember though they've taken your head |
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why we sleep fully dressed and rise only from bed |
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who did this to us? |
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who did this to us? |
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so partial to memory the pearls of our dead |
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but where do we keep them? put them here by the steps. |
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while i climb to the top and i find where i am |
