The embers of the saint inside of you 
Are growing as I’m bathing in your glow 
I’m swallowing the poison of your flower 
And hanging on the rising of my low 
Colorful and falling from your mouth 
Like a painted fever in recoil 
Like a lie without the pain 

On a pillow of your bones 
I will lay across the stones 
Of your shore until the tide comes crawling back 

A waning hand on silver granite ways 
Will mend my broken limbs and bend my haze 
I’m sleeping in the silence of your voice 
I’m cradling the peril of my only choice 
Colorful and falling from your mouth 
Like a painted fever in recoil 
Like a lie without the pain 

On a pillow of your bones 
I will lay across the stone 
Of your shore until the tide comes crawling back 
Throw my pillow on the fire 
Make my bed under the eye 
Of your moon until the tide comes crawling back 

Even though the truth can burn inside or fall behind 
I will wander through your open mind 
And you will find no lie can hide 
Until the tide comes crawling