The end
The songwriter's dead
The blade fell upon him
Taking him to the white lands
Of empathica
Of innocence
Empathica
Innocence
The dreamer and the wine
Poet without a rhyme
A widowed writer torn apart by chains of hell
One last perfect verse
Is still the same old song
Oh Christ how I hate what I have become
Take me home
Getaway, runaway, fly away
Lead me astray to dreamer's hideaway
I cannot cry 'cause the shoulder cries more
I cannot die, I, a whore for the cold world
Forgive me
I have but two faces
One for the world
One for God
Save me
I cannot cry 'cause the shoulder cries more
I cannot die, I, a whore for the cold world
Following
