He screams in his own
puddle
He lies in his deathbed
as his broken face looks
straight into me
the wind comes 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
i rub 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 light comes
the next
always stuck sorrounded by
the same walls
He walks down that same
old road, road
and falls in that same old
hole
