| The wreckage of humanity has been strewn across the land
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| And now the hour of desperation is at hand
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| We the maggots feed off the dead
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| Seeking solace in a bed of broken glass
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| We bleed infected water
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| Beneath bright skins of polished steel
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| Through empty, yearning, starved and frustrated hearts
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| Which long for risk and reason
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| This is a standard and sterile half-life to lead
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| Empty facades conceal slow decay
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| Within these new dark ages which breed discontent
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| To give up all hope to see the dawn
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| Reveals a victims face beneath the veneer
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| Struggling to show that it’s been wronged
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| Led astray by the myths of the father
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| With ancient wounds often ignored
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| Fighting for scraps from the table
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| While slowly we rot on the floor
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| Struggling for balance amid these unholy lies
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| Reflecting terror and chaos
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| We are born into suffering
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| With constructs, icons, idols and eyes
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| Which manifest and forecast our fear of our own demise
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| But on the eve of the apocalypse
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| You can burn these words into my flesh:
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| «we are the tortured and insane disillusioned and mundane
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| Unknown and unnamed desperate and enslaved
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| And we want something more» |