The rebounds and the leftovers.

Ricochet, Ricochet,
My words rebound,
Ricochet, ricochet,
there's is a dying sound,
the beat never dies,
the percussion alive
as the drums of the war roll,
and you claim not your share of the toll.
We are in a fight,
You do it wrong,
I did it right?
There's a  membrane so thin,
 that it collapses within
when you knock on that door,
there is rebound no more,
just a gossamer we tore.
and the dying scavenge,
left overs of revenge,
There are no fixes here,
just the wounds that need to mend,
Ricochet, Ricochet,
the paths we walk will bend,
Then there is no turning back,
there is a road to pretense,
I will burn that field around it,
You will not be alee ,
the wind will grip you in it,
and my flames you can not flee.
I was the smoke,
a bitter smoke,
a puff that torched your eyes,
Oh you blinded man of fire
she thought of you a flame,
oh you blinded man of cinders,
smoke and fire are not the same,
oh you foolish man of  common,
You became such wet timber,
Oh you foolish man of common,
I was not smoke nor the water.
Oh, you foolish man of common,
I was the wind, I was the air,
that kept flame alive
and you can not see or bear.
Embers, oh the embers,
I'll spark them and they will fray
and the fire will set alight, wet timber.
Ricochet.
burn, will you burn?
no, please ignite,
the flame that I can feed,
the fire that I need.
I'll rekindle you with the fire,
her passions and desire.
Oh, wet timber.
oh the surrounding hay and twigs,
I want to blow the leftovers away,
Ricochet.