What if The Cure Is A Clean Conscious
I don't know anymore. I'm walking the line so tentatively that I wouldn't be able to tell you.
Is my conscious clear?
Is a rose a sign of love? Or is a tulip just the same?
She was more beautiful than a rose.
Her thornless stem entwined in my fingers.
Her stem slipped away.
Maybe roses mean love cause the thorns snare your hands in lieu of your grip giving way.
Maybe it's just me.
I will personally see to it.
You are safe indeed.
I am talking to a brick wall with a woman's smiling face painted on it.
I can hear her responding to me now.
She tells me it's never too late.
I ask her how to reconcile the past, if never means never.
She says give it time.
I tell her it's not mine to give.
Silence. She and I haven't spoken since.
I wish I could keep time. Then I'd have time to give.
Only then out of the purity of this perfect compassion, forgiving myself, could my past exchange not haunt me.
Till then I dwell, staring at her face, painted on my bricks.
Suddenly I heard a voice whispering "I am giving in to you." But the voice was not a framiliar one. This voice was deperate for a turn for the worst.
I was frightened at first. That voice came back and said to me, "she sent me."
"She sent me to destroy this temple so on it's foundation her kingdom may rise."
That being said, now I am terrified.
The days close in, supplies run low, just the blow by blow for the love of an angel.
She will never know what it's like for me here without her.
She is safe indeed.
From this fear. From this angst. From holy glows. From praying gain.
At a dimes drop should she gain me? Just one question remains.
Is this beautiful love I hear mine?
I ask for for the answers.
I drive myself mad.
My tentative conscious is all that I've had.
Is my conscious clear?
Is a rose a sign of love? Or is a tulip just the same?
She was more beautiful than a rose.
Her thornless stem entwined in my fingers.
Her stem slipped away.
Maybe roses mean love cause the thorns snare your hands in lieu of your grip giving way.
Maybe it's just me.
I will personally see to it.
You are safe indeed.
I am talking to a brick wall with a woman's smiling face painted on it.
I can hear her responding to me now.
She tells me it's never too late.
I ask her how to reconcile the past, if never means never.
She says give it time.
I tell her it's not mine to give.
Silence. She and I haven't spoken since.
I wish I could keep time. Then I'd have time to give.
Only then out of the purity of this perfect compassion, forgiving myself, could my past exchange not haunt me.
Till then I dwell, staring at her face, painted on my bricks.
Suddenly I heard a voice whispering "I am giving in to you." But the voice was not a framiliar one. This voice was deperate for a turn for the worst.
I was frightened at first. That voice came back and said to me, "she sent me."
"She sent me to destroy this temple so on it's foundation her kingdom may rise."
That being said, now I am terrified.
The days close in, supplies run low, just the blow by blow for the love of an angel.
She will never know what it's like for me here without her.
She is safe indeed.
From this fear. From this angst. From holy glows. From praying gain.
At a dimes drop should she gain me? Just one question remains.
Is this beautiful love I hear mine?
I ask for for the answers.
I drive myself mad.
My tentative conscious is all that I've had.