On the monotonous fields we lay, scavenging for the threat we've prompted.
Interchangeably running a'wild, blaming the winds for the captains steer
Misconstruing the book of commonality, smothering our own values into poisons for war.
Draining vast expanses, into the color red, we pour out the concept of humanity
Relics speak in tongues of commerce.
Figures, shout in synchronicity for Sisphyus' toil,
The only pandemic we shall ever know, is our own division.
We will preach tediously of the fickle mind through our actions, through our sorrow, through our hatred, through our love.
Then we mobilize because governments, and politicians cannot co-exist.
Providing, that we stop trying to hog, naw, invade on anti-unity segments.
The abyss has always been diversity, it has always been a concoction of our own selves.
The man who thinks murder by pride will avenge nothing.
The man who thinks murder by pleasure is weak.
The man who thinks for himself, and not the world, who creates these thoughts will fail.
The man who stomps his feet on foreign ground will find triumph through his enemies exact mind.
Therefore, none is better.
None is just.
And peace is the bedtime story of death with sparkles and grim.
To be reluctant in belief, and to not subjugate off of it. Will never be a utopia, and that is the point.
My hands will caress the souls of the departed,
On the green they lay,
From the dirt gods says they were made,
I will whisper in the ears of mankind, inaudible mummers we are all so familiar with.
