After we were done painting the town We had colored ourselves faded Spinning iron seemed to be pointing down And time like tree pitch was dripping Its so hard and you never quite can tell When the soft hand becomes grated Chorus But its true I lost my voice over you It seemed to force me to listen And I needed truth and to find myself through But maybe right now I need a minute Maybe right now I need a minute We watched the tree tops light up like a flare Finally all the dust had settled Chorus Press your face to the cold frosted glass And watch the seasons breath Chorus
grated, seemed, minute, frosted, flare