On the lips of a ghost.
I gave up speaking, to hear the voices of ghosts
I gave up hearing to only see what they see.
I gave up trying knowing that we could fade into one.
And when I let go, I found my reflection was all that was left.
Took to the brink, I let go to see myself standing on the edge of infinity
Like leaning over the edge of a cliff out into the void.
Breathing the air soaked in the echoes of angels
And the ambience of ghosts.
Now I am a foreigner in my own world.
I am privy to a secret that locks my lips like a vault
When I force myself to speak the words
They fall like dead letters written in ancient Latin
We are locked in the world of ghosts.
No one can see us. No one can hear our whispers.
Even if I screamed and spilled my blood on to you
You would only hear a few light drops of rain
And a distant echo of thunder from lands far away.
Can you feel the urgency of my archaic letters?
Can you hear the cries of history pawing for your eye?
Can you see the hosts of ghosts and angels that you walk right through?
A black clad procession to a funeral 50 years ago?
The skies of heaven opening and closing?
The angels climbing up and down their ladder?
No, even the tears in my eyes are invisible to you.
The words on the lips of a ghost from years and years ago.
I gave up hearing to only see what they see.
I gave up trying knowing that we could fade into one.
And when I let go, I found my reflection was all that was left.
Took to the brink, I let go to see myself standing on the edge of infinity
Like leaning over the edge of a cliff out into the void.
Breathing the air soaked in the echoes of angels
And the ambience of ghosts.
Now I am a foreigner in my own world.
I am privy to a secret that locks my lips like a vault
When I force myself to speak the words
They fall like dead letters written in ancient Latin
We are locked in the world of ghosts.
No one can see us. No one can hear our whispers.
Even if I screamed and spilled my blood on to you
You would only hear a few light drops of rain
And a distant echo of thunder from lands far away.
Can you feel the urgency of my archaic letters?
Can you hear the cries of history pawing for your eye?
Can you see the hosts of ghosts and angels that you walk right through?
A black clad procession to a funeral 50 years ago?
The skies of heaven opening and closing?
The angels climbing up and down their ladder?
No, even the tears in my eyes are invisible to you.
The words on the lips of a ghost from years and years ago.