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She washes all the young blood from her hands in the sink |
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And she knows that the lights will be there for her |
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Breaks down the bodies to dark subtle ink |
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And she scrawls on the parchments that hang in the air |
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She rides a horse over stones in the night |
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And she closes her eyes and lets go of the reigns |
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She knows the radios run through the night |
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And she knows that the lights leave the prettiest stains |
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She builds a shrine and a typing machine |
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And she curls up to write down her tales from the black |
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Prays for a soft breeze and cool gentle rain |
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And she prays for the bodies that rise slowly back |
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She knows the dunes where the steel cities grow |
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And she knows when they jail her they'll grind down the key |
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She knows the lights lay the heaviest blows |
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And she knows that the sand must submit to the sea |
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She builds a bird out of plywood and gold |
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For to carry the old souls on up to the sun |
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Turns on the TV and sits in the cold |
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And she dreams that sometimes she's the prettiest one |
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She knows the thrill of the chase in her veins |
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And she knows that the sinking's a trick of the light |
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Prays for the silence and cool gentle rain |
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And she prays that the radios run through the night |
