Legends live
And Heroes die
Villains rule
And mothers cry
As the last
Pillar falls
Our king dethroned,
On parchment scrawls:
Weep not for those who've passed.
Or for your hopes and dreams dispatched. Weep not for your fallen kin, for soon you will see them again.
Under our morose moon's bloom
Asunder no more, lurking gloom.
Unselective in it's all-collective misanthropy.
A perfect machine of misery. Awake, aware.
We are the progenitors of our end of days. A malevolent entity resides in each one of our homes.
We're writing our own epitaph.
We're building our own cenotaph.
But we're blundering regardless,
And it's encumbering our catharsis.
We're writing our own epitaph.
Killing by writ.
Killing by rote.
(We've) Personified hatred into a perfect machine of misery built to castigate us.
We're writing our own epitaph.
We're building our own cenotaph.
But we're blundering regardless,
And it's encumbering our catharsis.
We're writing our own epitaph.