In the key of passive suffering
Of roots hollow and stars fleeting
In the key of infantile regression
Of the passing crowd sleeping
Never to wake
An ode to the metallic uterus
Which nourishes our spirits
And harvests our meaninglessness
For everyday that blood traverses death
And death is only sought in vain, cast into a realm of rot
A thousand pathways stretch beyond space and time
Blind are the seekers of truth
Hidden hands, silent voices offer treasures unspoken
Promises of a throne, a battle wages
Brother against brother, sister against sister
Vile hearts beat to the rhythms of violence and blood splatter
And it motions, running, running, screaming taking flight
Hours turn to minutes as days turn to night
Flesh melts and falls to ruined earth
Bones give way to ashes in our wake
Crimson sunsets it’s last
Grasps, the mass caste hopelessly cling to god, to the devil
To the ignorance within, answers, without
Pretender to the throne, what is there now?
At long last, a vacant hall of hopes and dreams
Hell is what we have sewn
And hell is what we reap
