Prophets

Words & Music by Ala Ghawas

The sound of your sweet breath triggers death, bends into the telephone
It cages my bitter bones in your frozen zone
The mathematical love of yours still ignores my fanatical care
And you just can’t declare your religious mind is spacing elsewhere

So, you freeze my burning sun with words like bullets from a gun
And I’m lost here on the run between what you’ve said and done,
between our prophet’s son and your orphan

Tacit terms adorn your lips, deceiving tips, they mess with my head
They lead my sugary dread to my sweet deathbed
And my desire remains unfed, I’m cutting my roots so deep so you said:
“Run baby run, you’re better off than dead.”

My blood is on the gory line between your prophet and mine
But the misery you designed and the sorrow you defined is so beautiful and divine
What’s the cost of dying in your arms?

I killed and drilled to know ya
I crossed the ocean to show ya
You’re etched on my skin
I wailed and jailed to steal ya
I bled my heart to feel ya
And you’re worth all my sins
What’s the cost of dying in your arms?