The embers of the saint inside of you   Are growing as I'm bathing in your glow   I'm swallowing the poison of your flower   And hanging on the rising of my low   Colorful and falling from your mouth   Like a painted fever in recoil   Like a lie without the pain      On a pillow of your bones   I will lay across the stones   Of your shore until the tide comes crawling back   Throw my pillow on the fire   Make my bed under the eye   Of your moon until the tide comes crawling back      A waning hand on silver granite ways   Will mend my broken limbs and bend my haze   I'm sleeping in the silence of your voice   I'm cradling the peril of my only choice   Colorful and falling from your mouth   Like a painted fever in recoil   Like a lie without the pain      On a pillow of your bones   I will lay across the stone   Of your shore until the tide comes crawling...   Throw my pillow on the fire   Make my bed under the eye   Of your moon until the tide comes crawling back      Even though the truth can burn inside or fall behind   I will wander through your open mind   And you will find no lie can hide   Until the tide comes crawling