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Self Portrait

de Keaton Henson

The Sun brings up yesterday's evils
And drags them back into the sky
I have not long enough arms, my love
To reach for the curtains of life

The days have a thing for believers
As the night has it hands in your eyes
And it may not just be tomorrow
It may be the rest of your life

Here is a song for the lonely
And a prayer whispered into the night
For a withered cunt, with a broken love
And a thorn wedged in his side

Food for the worms
Blood for the trees to grow
Muscle and bone
Arrogant soul
Song for the birds
Covered in apathy
Carving goodbye

In the back of your throne
This is the fight
Losing my sanity
Losing my mind
Find it my home
I don't blame me
I'm growing old

You limp through the small conversations
From the weight your back foot has to bear
As you empty your guts to the alley
And sweep up the yesterday prayers

These days I'm a sucker for tenses
I write in the third person now
And the days I'm not swinging for fences
I'm singing for ways to get out

And here is a song for the empty
A prayer uttered into the ground
For the broken king, with his arm in a sling
And his hands holding on to his crown

Food for the worms
Blood for the trees to grow
Muscle and bone
Arrogant soul
Song for the birds
Covered in apathy
Carving goodbye

In the back of your throne
This is the fight
Losing my sanity
Losing my mind
Find it my home
I don't blame me
I'm growing old
I'm growing old

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