The spearmint in your eyes
Burrow through the single core of my soul
And I can feel the hot, chilled breath
Of your words as you tear from me
Sounds of broken paper
Rings in the hollowness of the drums in my ear
Yet the fibers of our fingers are slightly warming together
And you know I can't dance
Unless it's slow to a song without a meaning
Yet this orchestra you have created
Moves the sole of the soulless shoes
And takes the hands which craft nothing
Far beyond their ability to be considered substantial
The mind, which comes to light
You have reticulated into a pensive state
So I can't help but to brood over aloud
Is this the sound of our demise
Or the music of a first verse
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