The embers of the saint inside of you,
|
are growing as I'm bathing in your glow.
|
I'm swallowing the poison of your flower,
|
and hanging on the rising of my low.
|
|
[chorus]
|
Colorful, and falling from your mouth,
|
like a painted fever in recoil,
|
like a lie without the pain.
|
On a pillow of your bones,
|
I will lay across the stones
|
of your shore until the tide comes crawling back.
|
Throw the pillow on the fire,
|
make my bed under the eye,
|
of your moon until the tide comes crawling back.
|
|
A waning hand on silver granite ways,
|
will men my broken limbs and bend my haze.
|
I'm sleeping in the silence of your voice,
|
I'm cradling the peril of my only choice.
|
|
[chorus]
|
|
[bridge]
|
Even though the truth can burn inside,
|
or fall behind.
|
I will wander through your open mind,
|
and you will find,
|
no lie can hide.
|
|
[chorus]
|
|
-----------------
|
Pillow Of Your Bones
|
| Chris Cornell |
