Sixpence None The Richer. This Beautiful Mess. Drifting. Zeneszám

Drifting away from you
spinning down to the pinpoint drop of isolation
in a spell
walking away from the fire
that keeps my heart
from turning ice

golden feet grace the surface of the sea
sinking deeper I view them from underneath
flailing, kicking as I head for the deep
I question a hypothetical lead supper
oh God receive my outstretched hand

will I inhale the blue
spinning down upon the glass
a ghost towards realisation of a cell
enclosing the hauntings of a past
that blind the eyes
and rust the heart

so I fell
I need you to take my hand
and keep my heart from ice...