St. Petersburg

I want to live in the element
I've spent my comfort and common sense
Have not imagened lost innocence
I'll bleed you dry, no I won't pretend
I'll be coming home but I don't know when

I've felt your fire, I've breathed your air
We turned and twisted, our bruises bare
I cursed the ground still I feel you everywhere

In a fickle world, there's no stubborn lung
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

The baby thrilled me, made me feel love
Flashes of myrrh and flames of wood
I don't feel guilty, maybe I should

In a fickle world, there's no stubborn lung
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 lung
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 painty St. Petersberg
Repressed depiction of a return
I am the oil and pigment 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