Chris Cornell

The embers of the saint inside of you
Are growing as Im bathing in your glow
Im swallowing the poison of your flower
And hanging on the rising of my low
Colorful and falling from your mouth
Like a painted fever in recoil
Like a lie without the pain
On a pillow of your bones
I will lay across the stones
Of your shore until the tide comes crawling back
A waning hand on silver granite ways
Will mend my broken limbs and bend my haze
Im sleeping in the silence of your voice
Im cradling the peril of my only choice