Family Portrait

And now we find ourselves engaged in civil war, choosing between redemption, and living with the poor. The frame is cracked, the glass is shattered, we've all been cast to sides. Each one will choose a weapon, a stance, the rule that he abides. The great enemy is dug in well, prepared now for hatred, prepared now for hell...

And the daughters bring forth tears to equal the mother's years. The unwanted son can no longer run. Father is bathed in sunlight, basking in the glow, laughing silently every second, enjoying all the show...

The landed gentry is benevolent, the gifts are always there. The peasants are distracted, they forget to miss the care. These occasions, these meetings, none by chance, and never advantage is taken, all day we're made to dance. Begging for the scraps, kissing the feet of the master, no power for ourselves, no dealing with disaster...

And how the stones do move at my command, how the fair are driven from the land. How shamefully I bestow the yoke, though told before I am the joke. Bearing witness, breaking fitness, unable to testify, breaking sweats but not for any august found here in July...

We pray not for your disappearance, but for your impossible change, some fantasized ability to let your comfort be rearranged. Your throne is built too sturdy, the foundation set in stone. So, why if you're still here do I still feel so alone?

endtime paradigm

these words we live by become these mantras we cry become these notions we chuckle at as we die

these friends that ring true become these spectres we cling to become the beautiful gravestones we drunkenly sing to

this music to our ears becomes a source of great tears becomes a reflection of failure and our enduring fears

this love we trust in becomes this cage we rust in becomes the unending battle we think we must win

this money we treasure becomes the thief of our leisure becomes the worst possible ruler by which we measure

this sex we try for becomes the loneliness we cry for becomes the wants we don't need that we soon die for

this hate we run from becomes as steady as a drum becomes the edge & the anger to which we all come