In the corner beside my window
There hangs a lonely photograph.
There is no reason
I'd never notice a memory, that could hold me back.
There is a wound, that's always bleeding.
There is a road, I'm always walking.
And I know, you'll never return to this place.
Gone through days without talking,
There is a comfort in silence.
So used to losing all ambition,
And struggling to maintain what's left.
There is a wound, that's always bleeding.
There is a road, I'm always walking.
And I know, you'll never return to this place.
And once undone there is only smoke,
Burning in my eyes to blind,
To cover up what really happened,
And force the darkness unto me.