Oh,
how sad they sound,
the songs the queen must sing of dying,
the prisoner upon her
throne,
the melancholy sighing.
If she could see her mirror now,
she would be free of those who bow and
scrape the ground beneath her feet.
Silently she walks among her
dying midnight roses and watches as each moment goes that
never really knows us.
And so it seems she doesn't care if she has
dreams of no one there within the shadows
of her room.
But all my frozen words agree and say it's
time to call back all the birds I sent to fly
behind her castle walls.
And I'm weary of the nights I've seen inside these empty halls.
Wooden lady,
turn and turn among my weary secrets
and wave within the hours past and other empty pockets.
Maybe we've found what we have lost
when we've unwound so many crossed entangling
misunderstandings.
But all my frozen words agree and say it's
time to call back all the birds I sent to fly
behind her castle walls.
And I'm weary of the nights I've seen inside these empty halls.