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My Last Match
03:15
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You call yourself a friend when you’re in need, but you don’t give a damn for me, and that’s fine, yeah I’m alright, but I fall for this shit every time. And I know it’s my own fault, been burned so many times that I feel nothing at all, walking through the flames, playing the same old games, wondering how I got here in the first place.
Jesus Christ, what kind of fool am I, bite me once, bite me twice, draw blood and I’m still turning you to the otherside. Jesus Christ, what kind of fool am I? fool me once, fool me twice, shame on me, for even trying.
You called yourself my friend when you needed me, struck my last match to help you see, in the growing dark under threatening skies, there was nowhere to run when the heavens opened wide. And while dirt circles the drain, there’s no amount of rain that washes out the stains of spilled blood.
Jesus Christ, what kind of fool am I, bite me once, bite me twice, draw blood and I’m still turning you to the otherside. Jesus Christ, what kind of fool am I? fool me once, fool me twice, shame on me, for even trying.
Then my last match was snuffed out, and then my last match snuffed out, and then my last match snuffed out, in the rain.
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2. |
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There’s a ghost of a thousand years or so, standing in the garden of my childhood home. Looks like she’s singing, in the tangerine twilight, between the rows of roses, softly swaying like a windchime.
Hey, she leaves no footprints as she dances in the moonlight.
Hey, sweet as a summer breeze that carries down the shoreline.
It was a terrible year in paradise, like someone left and didn’t latch the gate, something wicked crept while we slept, and everything changed.
Silver tongued poets, with hard callused hands, eyes like an autumn sunset, she runs barefoot in the sand. Nimble fingers, and blackened palms, the aurora borealis if it were a song.
Hey, she’s fleeting like a daydream in late afternoon light.
Hey, sweet as wildflower honey by the warmth of the fireside.
It was a terrible year in paradise, like someone left and didn’t latch the gate, something wicked crept while we slept, and everything changed.
I was told there’s a love that’s waiting if I’m patient, but there’s a real fine line between haste and hesitation.
There’s a ghost of a thousand years or so, standing in the garden of my childhood home. Looks like she’s singing, in the tangerine twilight, between the rows of roses, softly swaying like a windchime.
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I hope one day, you don't regret loving me, even if I'm the one to blame. For every earthquake, every flood of mistakes, when I know, I couldn't change for my own good.
Maybe, we're just dreaming, wounding healing, wake up screaming, your still with me.
Buckled to the past, a locomotive on the tracks, the boxcars carry every memory that we have. The train keeps getting longer, reaching back but we grow stronger, pulling forward still with everything we have.
Maybe, we're just dreaming, wounding healing, wake up screaming, your still with me.
I know one day, this will all just be a memory, a fleeting glimpse of what we used to be. And though you're just one star, in this great constellation, you'll always be the one for which I seek.
Maybe, we're just dreaming, wounding healing, wake up screaming, your still with me.
Buckled to the past, a locomotive on the tracks, the boxcars carry every memory that we have. The train keeps getting longer, reaching back but we grow stronger, pulling forward still with everything we have.
I hope one day, you don't regret loving me, even if I'm the one to blame. For every earthquake, every flood of mistakes, when I know, I couldn't change for my own good. When I know I couldn't change for our own good.
Maybe, we're just dreaming, wounding healing, wake up screaming, your still with me.
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David Stone Barrie, Ontario
Singer/songwriter and musician based in Ontario, Canada.
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