Put the mask on… no mouth, eye or ear holes/ kept tight around the neck trying to suffocate the ego/ The past draws a self destructive fate that fears hope/ with sight, sound and breath denied, nothing changes the deceased's tone/ it's just the outline, structure weighs a discrete stroke/ to keep the signature abstract, an epitaph with unique prose/ the Bastard son in the slain kings throne/ two hands of blood carrying the blade that betrayed what he brings home/ Trying to wear the weight of the crown on instinct alone/ swear patronage that barely amounts to defend loathe/ stature like two cadaver lungs stained by the smoke rings blown/ which hover and dissipate with the change the winds wove/ And you're asking what he'd trade for the sake of indigenous home/ he'd give it all back if it set the stage for generations to grow/ against the grain and the flow, union due payments are owed/ the aim as a whole's a loose representation of hope/ The whole history of Mesopotamia choked/ by a gold rope missing link that measures the hate in our souls/ defining a metric for making the most/ out of never again and a basic instinct for saving our own/ So you can Savor the moment atoned to your savior component/ a slave to your ownership bound and tied to behaviors molded in the base of ancestral motives/ we set the tone like distant explosions that left your horizons glowing/ 

These are the comings and goings/ flummoxed pheromone swings from the back downs to the come ups and gold spins/ it's apparent, one of us knows things and the others just fair to quote parables of dystopian growth rings/ branch out/ from war heads to missile toe rings this is that worship syndrome speech/ at a tempo that sins won't reach/ bent hope at the waste to kiss those feet/ yeah... some of us miss those dreams/ Instead this is the darkness a glimmer won't breach/ shooting stars in attempt to center woes creep/ even deity ascending won't cheat/ what seems to be imminent/ the blessing the ending won't need/