The steps to the museum are many , Won’t you help me up the stairs ? There’s a program with every item , every ***** of me . Up the steps through the open door , how many rooms are here ?
Now a chair stands all alone with no pictures on the wall , In the middle of a room , my heart lies behind that glass , a Spector , a ghost behind a wall .
Won’t you see how this blood runs from traitors gate , with bread that’s long gone stale, for judgement falls and my axe draws nigh , from deaths daughter must I fly , her lips are near , her crimson touch not that I should dwell , Never a traitor ,
nor a Herotic not i , Should ever be ?
If my head said yes and my heart said no then is there a life for me ? What foolish thoughts my mind portraid that were my very own , a complex web unbeknown could that stranger now be ?
The words are so beautiful and their truth no heart can see , and yet my heart with holy spirits and angels with keys surrounded me . How my dreams go back to that same old place how sweet the’re sorrows tell , of fields of bluebells and butterflies, and all will be well .
I walk into the sun , then the sun hides behind a cloud and my world goes dim , no Light my heart has fled to a thousand differant things .
Here I sit , My heart on display a traitor a heretic ? ask my heart not me .