We have become fevered seers
We've strayed our path far from the meek
We feed the pain we cannot kill
With seeds of hemlock and stems of golden weath
We cannot help but start to reel
And lose all kind of urge to think
We clutch the shroud against our skins
As a reminder of who we might have
Been but nothingness
A simulacrum of a man
Only a vision of despair
Measure of your indifference
A beast as shallow as the rest
An imitation of a friend
A sickness leading into death
A sunrise coming from the west
We do not saw what we won't reap
We soak our bread on gasoline
We cleanse the wounds we fail to heal
The blood we bleed drips from our fingertips
We walk among this barren fields
We spoil the soil beneath our feets
We will not stop, we will not grieve
We were not born to mourn but we were born to scream
Cross the Styx