St. Petersburg

I want to live in the elements
I've spurred my comfort, and common sense
I've no imagined lost innocence
I'll bleed you dry, no I won't pretend
I'll be coming home but I don't know when

I felt your fire, I breathed your air
We turned and twisted, our bruises bared
I curse the ground still I feel you everywhere

In a fickle world there's no stubborn love
I can feel your ghost, when will you give up?
It's a funny thing I heard of once
The return of the prodigal son

Oh baby thrill me, make me feel good
Flashes of neon in flames of wood
I don't feel guilty, maybe I should

In a fickle world there's no stubborn love
I can feel your ghost, when will you give up?
It's a funny thing I heard of once
The return of the prodigal son

In a fickle world there's no stubborn love
I can feel your ghost, when will you give up?
It's a funny thing I heard of once
The return of the prodigal son

I saw the painting St. Petersburg
Rembrandt's depiction of a return
I am the oil, and pigment mixed
And I know nothing but I know this:
I've been lost a long time in my head
I followed all the signs but I was misled
I'll be coming home but I don't know when