Punching The Flowers

In his search
For the end of the circle
He kept arriving back at the start
Having fell every hurdle
And she tried to make him feel better
But he didn't wanna feel better
'Cause he was living for the wandering
His heart like a dead letter

It always seemed he was punching the flowers
Ruminating like a fatalist for hours
With a voice like the sound of slamming doors
In a voice like the sound of slamming doors

And it seemed
He had mildew on his soul
From standing at the coastline
Wishing it would swallow him whole
And she tried to console him
But he wanted to go it alone
Because he'd never been alone
Or felt the myth of control

It always seemed he was punching the flowers
Ruminating like a fatalist for hours
With a voice like the sound of slamming doors
In a voice like the sound of slamming doors
It always seemed he was punching the flowers
Taking for granted the sweetness till it soured
And when he spoke, it was the sound of slamming doors
All she heard was the sound of slamming doors

Words were sharpened like axes
And he swung them blindly around
With no regard for the dangers
And slashed her to the ground
And I'm not sure which is worse
If God laughs or he doesn't
And I'm not sure which is worse
If it was love or it wasn't
If it was love or it wasn't

It always seemed he was punching the flowers
Taking for granted the sweetness till it soured
And when he spoke, it was the sound of slamming doors
All she heard was the sound of slamming doors

All she heard was the sound of slamming doors
All she heard was the sound of slamming doors