There’s a cold wind blowing on the back of my neck
And the chills keep rising from my core to my fingertips
It’s a place unfamiliar where the sun will neither rise nor set
A land of the waiting for ghosts that we’ve always kept
And I’m the grit in your head
The walking wounded
I’m all the things that all the fallen fell for
I’m a dead man walking
Along the road to my reckoning
And the birds keep screeching
I wonder what they’re trying to say
Cause I’m the grit in your head
The walking wounded
I’m all the things that all the fallen fell for
I can’t find my way back down from here
From here
I’m a marionette moving
Through the scenes of my final play
And the set keeps creaking
I wonder what its trying to say.
I don’t want to lose my head round here
Round here