Shallow minds tighten the grip
Killing the last of the poets
He fell down to his knees
And drowned in the cold concrete flow

I long for what’s untouched by man
I will dismiss answers based on nothing-ground
I forge dreams to uncoil

I long for what’s untouched by man
I even seek answers where they may not be found
I roam these virgin soils

Atlas [bad word]  I could feel
Clouds fell from the mourning sky
They’re closing all too soon
All too soon

Leaders of crowds turned stale, unfit to move
Pathetic freaks endorse dream deceivers
Antique festered minds
Reduced to mock desire

Those who create should not [bad word] their voice
Hyped is the feeble imitator
Seek and you will find
Beauty to be denied

Bleeding moving spirit
Man bleed the moving spirit dry
Bleed the moving spirit
Man, they bleed the moving spirit… dry