| You’d be choking on your flame
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| My Son without a name
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| Made king of all the wastes
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| And forever will swallow us alive
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| We’ll be abstracted from time
|
| We can let the tides wash over
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| This is the epilogue to the introduction (Lost in the sound)
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| Hold tight to all your systematic theories
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| That help you to sleep at night
|
| But remember
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| That there could be no sufficient certitudes in hell
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| Father, forgive them for they know not what they do
|
| Mother, receive me because I’m coming home to you
|
| Does this cup run dry?
|
| Look at what we’ve done again
|
| We wage war in the name of love
|
| Using gold to fill the holes in your hands
|
| Caught in the paradox
|
| Juxtaposed between bifurcated black and white…
|
| And my propensity to fail you
|
| Caught in the cyclical narrative of violence that invokes your name to justify
|
| genocide
|
| They’ll take everything
|
| We traded water for salt
|
| Something whole for something equally as broken as us
|
| Now dying of thirst
|
| We’ll write this out in blood and shut you in a stone cold time
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| Where the air rots out, leaving us alone
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| We chose to be alone
|
| I was given to cup to quench parched tongues
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| But I became drunk
|
| And lust lynched my lungs
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| Father, forgive them. |
| For they know not what they do
|
| Mother, receive me, because I’m coming home to you
|
| Does this cup run dry?
|
| For they know not what they do |