This corridor is kubrikian,
it's like the end's always off camera, and the reel is wearing thin.
But backstage the mirror's broken,
so you spin the reel and film, and I'll score the scene and sing
And there's burns upon the frames,
from where the ash had found the cracks, and settled in.
(I guess) You know the cigarettes won't save you,
but what's left in the corrupt, but song and sin?
My lungs are bare, but I'm still writing,
But my grey outlook, has dimmed the lighting,
This gas mask mentality is killing me.
We will fill these lungs.
We will fill these lungs.
(yeah)
In frames we see ourselves,
we watch silently in shame, as we anticipate the lines.
but this is pure love, steady the siren.
Breathe it in through broken mirrors, breathe the white into your mind.
(cause there are) stains, on the pages of the scripts,
leading saints astray, with promise of paler lips.
We are just a empty metaphor,
hiding solidarity within songs.
My lungs are bare, but I'm still writing,
But my grey outlook, has dimmed the lighting,
This gas mask mentality is killing me.
We will fill these lungs.
We will fill these lungs.
(yeah)
(We will fill these lungs)
In the page, was a saint,
and his words, doused in paint,
left a mark, on the streets,
where the dead, come to preach,
he said, son, I'm alive,
in the words, that you write.
You're an oak, not a child,
and you'll survive, in the wild.
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