Who is this stranger that slips in through the night
cloaked with hidden memories
living emotion long crystallized?
And who takes away the chance
to break free from their spell
to drink from a brand new crystal clear well?
Who is this that sings with the rain
while my spirit cries?
Whose laughter rings on the wind
while my heart slowly dies?
On a soft bed of roses
I lay my will down
whenever the stranger comes hanging around
Always so numb to the sting of the thorn
The sharp spur of the moment
where passion is born
I sense no bad blood, no torment
no real malice there
Just bittersweet as time
strutting on without a care
for all of the things
that make our hearts and souls bleed
Never taking notice, never taking heed
to the details of this world
that knock us down to our knees
You can never really tell
what this stranger will bring
But you’ll sense the phantom pilgrim
often hiding in the wings