Measured Out Moonlight

The fever it creeps on the carpet,
And half the story's been told.
I run from these autumns, these torments;
I run from this burning cold.

The smoke it crawls like insects,
And this anklet, it slowly grows old.
These chains, oh these chains...
I run from this burning cold.

The veins, they have been frozen
And the ventricles are all half dead
And I, all I do is let this winter spread.

The walls, they have been painted
And the storms have been brewed tonight.
You take a sip of the clouds,
And it seems to be quite alright.

The lyre and violin are singing,
They know the quiet songs you hum;
While I sit in the corner,
And pour out a glass of warm rum.

The pillows and bullets have been chosen,
And sigils have been written and stained,
And I, all I do is let this spring be born again.

The fever it creeps on the carpet,
And in silence, it dreams a new rock.
The cold, it burns, it shelters;
And I, all I do is walk.