The swarms that I speak
|
are the wrists I have cut
|
by flooding the tubs
|
where the warmth held her up
|
|
The lockets believe
|
that the secret of love
|
has caught its own tail
|
and it just won't give up
|
|
When I breathe
|
the heavens can't hold me
|
and I can't believe anymore
|
|
The light brings
|
the highest execution
|
show me the wings I must cut
|
|
In your landfill days
|
these are desperate graves
|
|
Give me the alter
|
red will shine
|
this pendulum won't wait
|
|
If I slay your spirits
|
with twin current volts
|
that weaken your knees
|
in the pit of my palms
|
|
Dressed in the slurs
|
of bovine engines
|
to feast upon the carcass
|
of your mother
|
|
When I breathe
|
the heavens can't hold me
|
and I can't believe anymore
|
|
The light brings
|
the highest execution
|
show me the wings I must cut
|
|
In your landfill days
|
these are desperate graves
|
|
Give me the alter
|
red will shine
|
this pendulum won't wait
|
|
When I turn the dial
|
and leave the gas on
|
I'm the matchstick
|
that you'll never lose
|
|
These are the splinters
|
made from a single blade
|
I'm the matchstick
|
that you'll never lose
|
|
I light the key
|
that locks you in
|
I'm the matchstick
|
that you'll never lose
|
|
And you'll wear the burden
|
of all my burns
|
I'm the matchstick
|
that you'll never lose
|
|
In your landfill days
|
these are desperate graves
|
|
Give me the alter
|
red will shine
|
this pendulum won't wait
|
|
-----------------
|
Dyslexicon
|
Mars Volta |