Sibyl Vane
With grace she glides like silk red wine across the stage
A saut de chat, but then the shatter of glass
All lights downcast in shame away from where she's spilt
Her love was true to me, not to herself
Why are we here now?
And what are we to do?
How are we just watching
With the Genovese syndrome?
The pulling and plucking, of heartstrings restrained
We have our confessions
In the art that we paint
Mine is this song
Mine is this song
She was my candlelight, as all the world's a stage
The proscenium
She makes her exeunt
The martyr sinks herself in the clasping curtain waves
Deep cerulean
At least let me keep the tears
Why are we here now?
And what are we to do?
How are we just watching
With the Genovese syndrome?
The pulling and plucking, of heartstrings restrained
We have our confessions
In the art that we frame
Mine is this song
Why are we here now?
And what are we to do?
How are we just watching
With the Genovese syndrome?
The pulling and plucking, of heartstrings restrained
We have our confessions
In the art that we frame
Mine is the girl
Mine is the girl
Her love was true to me, not to herself
Her love was true to me, not to herself
A saut de chat, but then the shatter of glass
All lights downcast in shame away from where she's spilt
Her love was true to me, not to herself
Why are we here now?
And what are we to do?
How are we just watching
With the Genovese syndrome?
The pulling and plucking, of heartstrings restrained
We have our confessions
In the art that we paint
Mine is this song
Mine is this song
She was my candlelight, as all the world's a stage
The proscenium
She makes her exeunt
The martyr sinks herself in the clasping curtain waves
Deep cerulean
At least let me keep the tears
Why are we here now?
And what are we to do?
How are we just watching
With the Genovese syndrome?
The pulling and plucking, of heartstrings restrained
We have our confessions
In the art that we frame
Mine is this song
Why are we here now?
And what are we to do?
How are we just watching
With the Genovese syndrome?
The pulling and plucking, of heartstrings restrained
We have our confessions
In the art that we frame
Mine is the girl
Mine is the girl
Her love was true to me, not to herself
Her love was true to me, not to herself
Credits
Writer(s): Johnny Quan
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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