St. Petersburg (IV Fridays)

I want to live in the elements

I've spurned my comfort and common sense

I've no imagined lost innocence

I'll bleed you dry, no I won't pretend

I'll be coming home, but I don't know when

I felt your fire, I breathed your air

We turned and twisted, our bruises bared

I curse the ground still, I feel you everywhere

In a fickle world, there's no stubborn love

I can feel your ghost, when will you give up?

It's a funny thing I heard of once

The return of the prodigal son

Oh, baby thrill me, make me feel good

Flashes of neon, in frames of wood

I don't feel guilty, maybe I should

In a fickle world, there's no stubborn love

I can feel your ghost, when will you give up?

It's a funny thing I heard of once

The return of the prodigal son

In a fickle world, there's no stubborn love

I can feel your ghost, when will you give up?

It's a funny thing I heard of once

The return of the prodigal son

I saw the painting St. Petersburg

Rembrandt's depiction of a return

I am the oil and pigments mixed

And I know nothing, but I know this

I've been lost a long time in my head

I've followed all the signs, but I was misled

I'll be coming home, but I don't know when