LYRICS Down a spiral stairway, like a blackout memory. You prop up your work like a figure of straw. Keeping your ghosts from the garden, but is it red ripe or deadened skin? Spiraling further in.
Burn a candle to my skin, turn the handle, let me in. I cannot be your guardian anymore. Burn a candle to my skin, turn the handle, let me in. I cannot be your medicine anymore.
I am a moment in time when your eyes start to wander and your head starts to spin from the simplest task. Deciding what you will wear. Finding faults in a straight line. I have to remember to stop wringing out the same cloth.