Waist High in the Morning Tides

In the autumn of my loss I burn in the winter of my dreams. I am waist high in the morning tides. The summer is over and there is nothing I can do to save it. It is so cold. I am waist high in the morning tides. In this landscape of images a dead man stands at sea, suspended between our parting and his coming back again, his red brown sails are filled with shapes of sorrow drifting across the clouds into what may be a different world. He won't be coming back again. He won't be coming back again. Chorus: Waist high in the morning tides, where the waves kiss the shore, I search for meaning in the echoes, but he's not here anymore. The seasons change and fade away, yet I'm anchored to this pain. Waist high in the morning tides, I'm left with just the rain. Verse 2: In the springtime of my hopes, I drown in the summer of my fears. I am waist high in the morning tides. The flowers have withered and there's nothing I can do to save them. It is so quiet. I am waist high in the morning tides. In this canvas of memories, a silent figure stands alone, caught between our last embrace and his fading into the unknown, his shadowed sails are filled with whispers of regret drifting into the dawn, to a place where time is gone. He won't be co In the autumn of my loss I burn in the winter of my dreams. I am waist high in the morning tides. The summer is over and theres nothing left to see. It is so cold. I am waist high in the morning tides. In this landscape of images a dead man stands at sea, suspended between our parting and his coming back again, his sails are filled with shapes of sorrow drifting across the clouds into what may be a different world. He won't be coming back again. No, he won't be coming back again. Waist high in the morning tides, where the waves kiss the shore, I search for meaning in the echoes, but it's not here anymore. The seasons change and fade away, yet I'm anchored to this pain. Waist high in the morning tides, I'm left with just the rain. In the springtime of my hopes, I drown in the summer of my fears. I am waist high in the morning tides. The flowers have withered and there's nothing I can do to save them. Its so quiet. I am waist high in the morning tides. In this canvas of memories, a silent figure stands alone, caught between our last embrace and fading to unknown, his shadowed sails are filled with whispers of regret drifting into the dawn, to a place where time is gone. He won't be coming back again.