The Art of Moving Forward
Haven't found home again, no sense of peace for the weary
There is no way to console the dead
Rotting inside of myself, what am I to do?
I've lost my vision, this landscape is dreary, a never ending grey
"My love, speak not of what was
There was joy, and I know of how you suffer
But there is hope, colour in the black
Find sound in the quiet
You need to listen
Hear my voice, follow me home"
I hear you, but I can't feel you
Your touch, your skin
Your voice is growing distant
Hide the pain again
I am retreating, back into the dirt
I am retreating, I swear I'll find you
Writer/s: Of Modern Architecture
