Our days are numbered
And our time is cheap
We waste our gold over silver
And we celebrate the shortening of our path
We celebrate our ticking youth
With things that will never replace time
And our minds go demented with the sound of ticking clocks
Ticking and ticking
Inching and inching closer to death
The death of good
And the birth of bad
Oh how the books have turned
And how faces are sour
And how our sentences run past our tongues
Without running through our heads
And our stories were based on dreams
And our arguments were based on whispers
Whispers that brush our sleeping ears
And tingle through our heads,
Echoing
Oh how these echoes sound like the voices of gods and demons
Demons there to make us feel better
And gods there to make us scared
Oh how life is but a thought
But a creation of a god
How the souls came so pure
From one source
And how our mercy is spread
And how our tears are lost
Oh how the days have changed
And how the tales have been kept
And how are minds have grown old and weary
And how our wrinkles define the stories of our senility
We grew fond of war
We often forget the battle of word
Words that can be more critical
Than guns and steel
Words that spill tears
Wishing they had spilled blood instead
The tears of fighters watering the plants of our cracked land
The cracked lands of our homes
That engulf us into the hells that rumble beneath
Sending us looking for new homes
Looking for the angels that promised the survival of our safety
Yet they were never found,
For their visions were but a god's thought
Of what life could be
Instead giving us a pitiful image of the end rising forth
To fool us into the belief of the importance of life and the immateriality of death.
