I’m standing in the ruins of a house that once was.
It tore down all the walls—it tore my fucking house apart.
As I stumble through the ruins, I come across old sheets of paper.
And on all of them is written “the storm comes with no intention of stopping.”
I almost wish I hadn't, but I've lived to see what’s left.
And in its wake, I stand naught but bones and sorrow.

I felt it gather in the air the weeks before,
felt the air argue with its very self in utter defiance.
It felt unnaturally warm, like summer air in the winter.
And still I looked away at better times and better summers.

And when the walls trembled and the pictures fell,
I lifted a glass to my lips and watched.

I’d been told the signs and given the warnings,
but for reasons still unknown to me I walked into that storm.

And when the walls trembled and the pictures fell,
I lifted a glass to my lips and watched.

I watched the trees split down the middle,
as cold heaved itself through their bark.
And I watched her hands take their place on my face,
before they tore away the skin on my cheeks.

The storm came in as the land lay asleep,
and it shook my body to its core.
I watched the trees split down the middle,
as cold heaved itself through their bark.
And I watched her hands take their place on my face,
before they tore at the skin on my cheeks.
I was left outside with the wind at my face,
and it left me naught but bones and sorrow.