Fine lines we draw between grey skies
And grey eyes too clouded to see through the fog
and the smoke and the filth and the afterbirth of the rain.
And rich soil is tilled far too deep for deformed roots to reach
So we bleed until we can peek at what’s behind the shades
Son of a Father, Son of a Spirit, Son of a Jailor, Son of a Mourner
Behold the swarm of insects dancing on angels’ wings
They smile and laugh and claim you’re not fit for the king
The dirt pits that we dig for ourselves with ill intent
Build shelters for soldiers to house our discontent
Cast down, the stones get thrown and pariahs are set aside
Deceivers lay claim to the throne and write laws on borrowed time
The context is strewn; the foundation is built on lies
Why sacrifice when it means nothing at all?
Why burn the coals when we tear up from the smoke?
Why cut old wounds when the blood is too thick to drink?
Thanks to Atreides for these lyrics
Punk Lyrics |