I'm still troubling them, a face with hands, they're creeping down into my pants. I can't make peace with the brightest light, so I let it straight into my life. I don't expect to make it past vacation.
My expensive taste has run itself to empty me straight into hell. I can't keep searching in the dark like a marksman that can't make their mark. It's exactly like my father said, the bigger picture's far from my head. And even with a massive scene, it goes unseen to me.
A sick old saint, the marble archway. Signs of ungodly decay. Everyone's a little scared, waiting for their judgement day. If we're not going to heaven, why are there these wings on our backs? For all except your halo, we're fading into black.
We've troubled God, asked it for help; told us we'd have to help ourselves. This heaviness could fill a hole, but what's the prickly price we owe? In choosing not to see past love, there's no place for us up above. I don't expect to make it past vacation with all these empty words past expiration. I'll never have some sense of some salvation.