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So I ran for the door, but it closed in front of me |
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The handle locked, but she handed me the key |
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"Only you can unlock it now" she said and stepped away |
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And I remember thinking |
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What a strange, strange thing to say |
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I turned the key into the door and gazed onto the dark |
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She handed me a candle which she lit without a spark |
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So I stepped into the long, long, pitch dark hall |
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The candle burned so dim I had to feel along the wall |
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The dim glow flickered as I felt my way ahead |
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A splinter from a picture frame pierced me, and I bled |
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I moved the candle closer, close enough to see |
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The painting of that woman smiling back at me |
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I examined it much closer noticed what I had not before |
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The date read "in the year of our Lord 1854" |
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Suddenly a draft of cold blew the candle out |
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Slowed down the black I felt my way about |
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Then up ahead, up ahead I could vaguely hear |
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The sounds of song and laughter |
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People in good cheer |
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My fingers brushing canvases, picture frames and stone |
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Then I felt something, something that chilled me to the bone |
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The final painting had not yet time to dry |
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And the door creaked open and let in a crack of light |
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She stood there in the doorway |
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She said "Now you finally see" |
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She pointed at the portrait |
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And I saw, my God... it was me |
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It was me |
