In fields where nothing grew but weeds,
I found a flower at my feet,
bending there in my direction.
I wrapped a hand around its stem;
I pulled until the roots gave in,
finding there what I'd been missing.
But I know...
so I tell myself, I tell myself, it's wrong.
There's a point we reach from which we can't return.
I felt the cold rain of the coming storm.
All because of you, I haven't slept in so long;
when I do, I dream of drowning in the ocean,
longing for the shore where I can lay my head down.
I'll follow your voice - all you have to do it shout it out.
Inside my hands these petals browned,
dried up, fallen to the ground,
but it was already too late now.
I pushed my fingers through the earth,
returned this flower to the dirt,
so it could live. I walked away now.
But I know...
Not a day goes by that I don't feel this burn.
There's a point we pass from which we can't return.
I felt the cold rain of the coming storm.
All because of you,
I believe in angels,
not the kind with wings,
no, not the kind with halos:
the kind that bring you home,
when home becomes a strange place.
I'll follow your voice.
All you have to do is shout it out.