| Song | Silent Thunder |
| Artist | Christian Death |
| Album | Atrocities |
| My bed is the garden where voices all meet | |
| Hands skim through the water beneath my pillow | |
| Stones like rain wash away the hours | |
| The hands on my clock, sex, wilted flowers | |
| Silent Thunder pries me to sleep | |
| Falling the edge so steep | |
| And if my eyes shy from the morning | |
| My lips will taste of unripened fruit | |
| Words without a language call from the past | |
| The future was the day before the last | |
| Silent Thunder pries me to sleep | |
| Falling the edge so steep |