Witching Hour

Now the sun has gone so let me creep inside, / To your heart of hearts to where your secrets hide. / And don’t you know it won’t do no good to run? I can read your soul through the scars you’ve won! // ‘Tis the witching hour, tell me where would you go / With no sign of courage or your hooded cloak? / I can feel the fear rising deep down in your throat / As your eyes glaze over, you shiver all alone. // Now the wind blows cold through your bedroom door, / As you sit hunched over staring down at the floor. / And your blood-stained eyes they grow too full to cry / As you sit and contemplate your living lie. // And in your wooden box you feel the termites swarm / Too close to flesh not to fill secure, / But bound and gagged you see no prayer for escape, / So you let the evil bore right through your face. // Then the question is posed and it opens up your eyes / From the storm you’re living to more hopeful skies, / But still you sit with your ears clenched tight, / Too proud and lonely to break through tonight. // So just go throw yourself back into your grave, / And let the undertaker put the coins in place, / And when you reach the river won’t you look for me. / I’ll wave you under with the pain I breath.