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

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





A waning hand on silver granite ways

Will mend 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

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 stone

Of your shore until the tide comes crawling back

Throw my pillow on the fire

Make my bed under the eye

Of your moon until the tide comes crawling back





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

Until the tide comes crawling