a silver mirror that's flaking to black.
he sees more than he gives back.
and all his bad intentions turn to birds;
they flock to him like st. francis in his garden.
an audience that can't and won't react.
i feel their glassy eyes on my back.
they say, "we'll make your heart"
they say, "we'll make your heart"
they say, "we'll make your heart our home."
a blood disease that carries me.
a new unease that drives me
into your arms, calling your favors.
and all these bad intentions turn to birds,
and they flock to me like devils on my shoulders.
an audience that chooses not to react.
you feel my glassy eyes on your back.
no, i'll make your heart
no, i'll make your heart
no, i'll make your heart
no, i'll make your heart
no, i'll make your heart
no, i'll make your heart
no, i'll make your heart my home.