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The antique feeling of autumn, |
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Tangled in her hair, |
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Whispered through the naked trees. |
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I slipped in the hall, |
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The staircase was soaked with her tears, |
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As it gathered in puddles beneath my knees. |
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I'll climb the ladder to the attic, |
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Waiting for flowers to bloom, |
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I hate the walls in this room, |
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They close in and they talk to me. |
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Ch: I hope she can swim cause she's diving in, |
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Into the deep end, |
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She replaced her eyes with a lens that told lies, |
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And she bleeds from the cut, oh |
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From the cut of a paper heart that was ripped |
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Into shreds and laid out on her bed |
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For the cameras to capture in their film. |
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Collecting dust, on the mantle, she's on display, |
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Behind the glass, exposing her pearly white teeth. |
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Back up, start from here, she's grinning from ear to ear, plot the point on the timeline, |
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Where the poison army infiltrated her veins. |
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Bridge: Hiding in boxes, |
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Away from the light, |
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The fabric was sewn, |
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By the stories of her life. |
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Ch: Repeat |
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These clothes are old |
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Inside of each fold, |
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Is a story that will never be told, |
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In the attic for all eternity, |
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Out of sight and out of mind everyday. |
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Ch: Repeat- out of mind everyday |
