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Burn These Pages
...Days of Epiphany; Years of Regret...
Match Made in Hell
Secret place
We all fear to go
Mirror in the corner
Of the attic below
Spark flickered eyes
Flames did grow
I'll lose secrecy
In the end we all know
Shaky hands
And broken bones
A cellar holler caught me
Asleep all alone
I'd have it if you give me
Some of my own
With a black bowed gift
And the world unknown
Sip down your molotov cocktail
Made from pain and made from whence you hail
Strike up fires with your match made in hell
Hear the sound of a liberty bell
Shaky hands and
A lust to kill
Cellar holler caught me
And its just a cheap thrill
I'd have it if you've got
More blood to spill
Black bowed gift
And a world standing still
Sip down your molotov cocktail
Made from pain and made from whence you hail
Strike up fires with your match made in hell
Hear the sound of a liberty bell
Speak easy
Cut ourselves drunk with the glare and the fire in our eyes
Speak easy
Nothing to lose but the blood we've got left inside