You’re dying, not from any unknown cause brought upon you by your enormous sense of becoming, but dying from your own failure to meet your own expectations, your inability to live up to your own ideals,
How does it feel to be a false prophet, a soothsayer who only predicts nay sows the seeds of your own demise, leaving the future in the claws of carrion fouls who gnaw away at the very thought of love,
The hordes that descend upon you with wistful grins crying Judas, Judas! Wake you from your slumber, for it is not I who sleeps, but my soul dost dwell upon the past, the synchronised mechanical meanderings of man gone mad in a world that could not care less,
You’re asked to suffer the silence, let ignorance rule as men take Jesus as their harlot, as their spiritual whore, for they know the Sabbath is but a day, but days turn to weeks, as weeks turn to years and their arrogance shall plague the eons to come,
The warrior leading the chivalrous life can no longer be sustained, for he must sell his soul to feed his blood or else his blood with feed the earth for the farmer must toil and reap rewards from his work,
We’re destined to rise yet we’re pardoned from grace, twenty nine years, a figure I’ve not gained is carved unto my skull for the question remains my epitaph born though I’m wide awake, I’m not sleeping, oh no……………………
How does it feel to be a false prophet, a soothsayer who only predicts nay sows the seeds of your own demise, leaving the future in the claws of carrion fouls who gnaw away at the very thought of love,
The hordes that descend upon you with wistful grins crying Judas, Judas! Wake you from your slumber, for it is not I who sleeps, but my soul dost dwell upon the past, the synchronised mechanical meanderings of man gone mad in a world that could not care less,
You’re asked to suffer the silence, let ignorance rule as men take Jesus as their harlot, as their spiritual whore, for they know the Sabbath is but a day, but days turn to weeks, as weeks turn to years and their arrogance shall plague the eons to come,
The warrior leading the chivalrous life can no longer be sustained, for he must sell his soul to feed his blood or else his blood with feed the earth for the farmer must toil and reap rewards from his work,
We’re destined to rise yet we’re pardoned from grace, twenty nine years, a figure I’ve not gained is carved unto my skull for the question remains my epitaph born though I’m wide awake, I’m not sleeping, oh no……………………
