When we've wasted our inheritance,
what's left is a stone-cold heart
neither lost nor found.
And there you meet us.
Waiting for and wanting what a wretched man deserves
drives me to the drawing board
where I dream of drowning the wasted years.
Fighting to find tears, as I come up dry
something inside reminds
me of the truth.
Its ok.
Is that you? Is it true that a lover's voice
is more lowly than I had thought?
While my spirit is not painted gold,
I find a rusty shell, shouting for a resurrection.
As I let go of what should have been
and believe in the truth,
I find I am trusting you.
And then they flow-the tears I used to know.
Now I'm not afraid that they'll be lost- I know its You
who holds them.
I am tears in your bottle.
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