The embers of the saint inside of you
Are growing as Im bathing in your glow
Im 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 [bad word] crawling back

waning hand on silver granite ways
Will mend my broken limbs and bend my haze
Im sleeping in the silence of your voice
Im 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 [bad word] crawling back

Throw my pillow on the fire
Make my bed under the eye
Of your moon until the [bad word] crawling back

Even though the [bad word] can burn inside or fall behind
I will wander through your open mind
And you will find no lie can hide

Until the [bad word] crawling