Criminal Prints

I am my own tragedy,
I am my bitter calamity,
I am a living soul,
A dying body on parole,
Yeah a dying body on parole.

I'm the criminal,
I've got blood on my house and hands,
I've given up the holy vigil,
assembled a mansion of shifting sand,
pretty to behold with the eye,
until you went and looked inside,
and the inside was just the shack of a criminal,
with dirty fingerprints everywhere.

How can you escape the ghost of yourself,
A living soul in a dying shell.
What do you do when you havent been doing what you're supposed to?
Who can erase the fingerprints,
who can tear down the wall and split apart,
the living and the dead in your heart.
Who can keep us alive,
where is the breath of life,
can he cure the predictable,
and wash the hands of a criminal