Tale from Black

She washes all the young blood from her hands in the sink
      And she knows that the lights will be there for her
      Breaks down the bodies to dark subtle ink
      And she scrawls on the parchments that hang in the air

      She rides a horse over stones in the night
      And she closes her eyes and lets go of the reigns
      She knows the radios run through the night
      And she knows that the lights leave the prettiest stains

      She builds a shrine and a typing machine
      And she curls up to write down her tales from the black
      Prays for a soft breeze and cool gentle rain
      And she prays for the bodies that rise slowly back

      She knows the dunes where the steel cities grow
      And she knows when they jail her they'll grind down the key
      She knows the lights lay the heaviest blows
      And she knows that the sand must submit to the sea

      She builds a bird out of plywood and gold
      For to carry the old souls on up to the sun
      Turns on the TV and sits in the cold
      And she dreams that sometimes she's the prettiest one

      She knows the thrill of the chase in her veins
      And she knows that the sinking's a trick of the light
      Prays for the silence and cool gentle rain
      And she prays that the radios run through the night