A painted window, the light shines through,
Connecting all the comfort anyone can gain from you.
A broken promise, a heavy veil.
I see no way to get us through this when everything’s for sale.
Don’t sell me solace.
Don’t sell me sympathy.
Don’t show me all the things you think that I might wanna see.
Don’t sell me fire.
Don’t sell me gold.
Don’t preach to me your sick morality.
I think it’s gaunt and old.
Don’t sell me solace.
They sell their silence. They’d sell their soul.
They sell out all of our salvation just to seek some selfish goal.
They won’t heed history. Can’t sacrifice.
Evaluate the mystery, and your blood might turn to ice.
Don’t sell me solace.
Don’t sell me sympathy.
Don’t tell me I’m the things you think that I might wanna be.
Don’t sell me fire.
Don’t sell me gold.
Don’t share with me your sick sensations
With eyes so dead and cold.
Don’t sell me solace.
This one exists in my head, and originally entered the world, as a song.