In a parlor of dust and declining light, Stitched from rough cloth in the dead of the night, Button eyes fixed on the wallpaper’s fade, A smile that was sewn and forever stayed. He sits where the shadows grow longer each day, With regrets that have nowhere to go or to say. Chorus Oh, the seams hold the silence, the buttons the stare, A quiet apocalypse hangs in the air. No scream ever rises, no tear ever falls, Just the soft, endless weight of the doom that he hauls. He watches the rain on the tall window glass, Counts every droplet that never will pass. The clock on the mantel ticks slower than fate, And the chairs in the corner still wait, still wait. A ribbon once bright now lies frayed on the floor— A keepsake of something he cannot restore. Chorus Oh, the seams hold the silence, the buttons the stare, A quiet apocalypse hangs in the air. No scream ever rises, no tear ever falls, Just the soft, endless weight of the doom that he hauls. (Middle Eight) Once there were laughter and soft little hands, Warmth in the fabric and bright far-off lands. Now only the echo of footsteps long gone, And the knowledge that nothing will ever go on. The mirror reflects what the heart cannot name— A stitched little figure who carries the blame. In the attic of years where the cobwebs hold court, He measures the distance from joy to the dark. Each night the same silence, each morning the same, A polite little doom with a very long name. Yet still he remains in his place by the stair, With a smile that was sewn and a soul past repair. Chorus Oh, the seams hold the silence, the buttons the stare, A quiet apocalypse hangs in the air. No scream ever rises, no tear ever falls, Just the soft, endless weight of the doom that he hauls.
