Frail cold hands clutch a withering heart. Dead stare signals it’s time to depart. Whisked away on a gold chariot high, to be thrown overboard and fall through the sky. Somehow you didn’t make the cut, somehow you didn’t make the cut. You thought your soul was pure, not damned, and just as righteous, but somehow you just didn’t make the cut. How does it feel to be forsaken? To be abandoned by the one you put your faith in? You’d still be here if you believed in nothing at all. This [bad word] you have made is where you will decay.