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The door creaks open, I am alone. I must've left a window open; There's nobody home. Empty easels and wells ran dry; Nobody makes it out alive. The draft in the air and the draft on this paper; Love creeps into this makeshift altar.
A prologue so full of pressure; It broke at the bend. This arc, I am not sure; If it's ever going to end. They say the writer still watches; His typewriter sure did catch this. A whisper in the words sung by a songstress; A tale told true in a story for the silence.
This chill dances around a poet on fire; The floorboards are singed in something cruel. He lost his balance, regret echoes as he murders his sire. How maddening is a gothic fool? Ripped out pages and unread plot twists; He doesn't think his emotions ever stood a chance. What would you call a ghost if it had no name? This?
An epilogue so full of error; It broke at the bend. This arc, I am not sure; If it's ever going to end. They say the writer still watches; His typewriter sure did catch this. A whisper in the words sung by a songstress; A tale told true in a story for the silence.
He's a recluse on the cusp of something great; But torture isn't as romantic as it is his fate. He cherishes the silence, a motion of absolute peace; But he is in an epiphany of violence, telling stories of woe with ease. Understand he is no shrouded man. He is no shrouded man. Listen, clearly listen to this, A tale told true in a story for the silence.
