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• Artiste: Dear Hunter, The
• Titre: The Procession
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The blood, how it paints such a scene. Foul routine pedigree, mouth agape, stuttered hands attempt to flail, and finally agree. Her heart ceases its rhythm... somewhere trumpets decay. In the front by the well, wishing wishes that deny the stale smell in the hay. Hey there, no one cry. Place these over her eyes. We are broke and alone... we're all broken alone. (She's inanimate, bloodless elegance) Fatal fascination breeds a bloom of misery (Helpless hiding tongues bathed in revulsion) Here lies unfinished beauty wilting premature But we can't be too sure, no you can't be too sure Reserved; always playing the part of the boy left alone. He proceeds to the road beyond the home he learned to call his own. (She's inanimate, bloodless elegance) Fatal fascination breeds a bloom of misery (Helpless hiding tongues bathed in revulsion) Here lies unfinished beauty wilting premature But we can't be too sure, no you can't be too sure one life for another... (She's inanimate, bloodless elegance) Fatal fascination breeds a bloom of misery (Helpless hiding tongues bathed in revulsion) Here lies unfinished beauty wilting premature But we can't be too sure, no you can't be too sure