I have stumbled into my decisions Mumbled the finality with uncertainty Am I moving forward as sure as I seem Or are my steps guided blindly? I know my right follows after my left But what are all the steps in between? I can't close a single door and the breeze swelling inside my home is chilling to the bone Their skinny fictional fingers finding Every nook and cranny of my body Piercing, boring into my being To the point where I can't think a thought without assuming she's softly sound asleep Giver give me colour. I will take anything Painter, my palette is empty But my brush won't seem to stop I would kill for that kind of peace If I could only hide murder in my conscience But peace will not find me Isn't the warmth the same as the alter candle's flame? Isn't the comfort worth more than the minister's words?