He screams in his own
puddle
He lies in his deathbed
as his broken face looks
straight into me
the [bad word] swift
through
the violins start to sound
the waterfalls as
i see my grasp to life
unchain
as i outstretch my hand
to the wuonded brother
and even know what you
mean to me [bad word] my eyes so i can't see
'cause when to far away
to perceive
i stand
here by my side
here by my hand
the arid dry grossness in me
remains still
remains still, still
i try to keep my eyes from
closing
but i speak disregarding
the possible annhilation
of entire cities
where brothers turn to
numbers
we are all just pawns in a
game
and after all
even here the material
is the same
this artwork of thick
drapery rests on a white
altar, a white altar
Our portarit is sorrounded
by
the figure of an elder in a
black coffin
writing her own epitaph
on these jagged rocks lost
children
point the fingers to blame
eachother
to blame eachother
and from the [bad word] the next
always stuck sorrounded by
the same walls
He walks down that same
old road, road
and falls in that same old
hole