Courrier - Running Right

Cold is the wind of my last words,
Blown from the lips of a runaway
Trite is the weight of a farewell
I've fallen through the looking glass again

I'm far from, I'm far from home
Leaning on the gale of the storm
I'm facing, I'm facing fire
Fleeing from the pains of running right

Sad are the sorrows of the proud
The words to their own ruin ringing out
Rough is the road of my return
Traveled at the length of some year's end

And I'm far from, I'm far from home
Leaning on the gale of the storm
I'm facing, I'm facing fire
Fleeing from the pains of running right
Running right
Running right
Running right

Cold is the wind of my last words,
Blown from the lips of a runaway

And I'm far from, I'm far from home
Leaning on the gale of the storm
I'm facing, I'm facing fire
Fleeing from the pains of running right
Running right
Running right
Running right