Tombs

The day I fell from grace And words lose power evermore "You once fancied this space" I gesture to the floor This is your home Obliged to your seclusion I pictured you in positions plenty Mouth agape In your greatest escape And I was your perfect little metaphor Somehow I'm sure I'll be buried here, in the written word before me An author's final story This is your home Where tombs house the dead alone (Alone) The hand that fails the wrist Can't let the body do its work And should that hand become the fist Fill it with a quill, it does the trick That's what you said to me In our pasts tense I'm your better half I've been your author all along And what lies written must come out My love, my friend Besides, don't you wanna hear my song?