The windows wearing garments made of gossamer and ice
And all the doors are set with hinges rusted red
The shadows seem so sorrowful, their voices full of dread
But all the worry they convey is imprecise

The banisters are broken and the world beyond is hollow
And the silence is a sentence that I don’t know how to follow
To anything resembling a confident conclusion
When the roads are made of rope and all the doors are an illusion

A torrent made dust is falling in an avalanche
Around a circle made of candles burning low
All the trees are burning but they always seem to grow
Another chandelier of nooses from their every bowing branch

The voices are an echo from an army of desertion
And the faces that remain are slowly leaving through assertion
So turn them into stone the many things I cannot carry
Till the only meaning known
Is that I’m left here all alone
The only beating heart within a statuary