the birds of st. marks

oh how sad they sound the songs the queen must sing of dying, the prisoner upon her throne of melancholy sighing, if she could see her mirror now, she would be free of those who bow, and scrape the ground beneath her feet, silently she walks among her dying midnight roses, and watches as each moment goes that never really know us, and so it seems she doesn't care, if she has dreams of no one there, within the shadows of her room, but all my frozen words agree, and say it's time, to call back, all the birds i sent to, fly behind her castle walls, and i'm weary of the nights i've seen, inside these empty halls, wooden lady turn and turn among my weary secrets, and wave within the hours past and other empty pockets, maybe we've found what we have lost, when we've unwound so many crossed, entangling misunderstandings, but all my frozen words agree and say it's time, to call back all the birds i sent to, fly behind her castle walls, and i'm weary of the nights i've seen, inside these empty halls