There is no anguish like that of the close
As you walk straight into the metaphysical barrier
A metaphor for everyone in intermission
Suspended in the pseudonym for all that feels the same
Every feeling of solitude and loneliness that has ever had a name
It's the lone old pacifist that sits on the hard slate looking down
On the world that he never knew for he flew above our troubles
Condemned as vermin for crimes he does not understand
As though he were not grounded in the same torment of life
His once white plumage is grey, to match his mood
Awaiting the sleet to peck at his feathers
Like noble Prometheus, chained to his honour, and morality
How has such notion escaped us of pride and laudable ascension?
Perhaps our clarity was lost in the flames that took us
Is this love, in its grandeur, the shame of it erasing such lucidity?
The trail of transgressions cascading down in red and black ribbon
That we follow like blinded children or like mongrels tied to our leash
Ply your courage to rise to the occasion
So that we may not yet descend into the Hell of the lurid
Subside in the shadows of our dreams
The nightmares that we let wander in
But can we remain so, unconverted
And pretend that nothing has changed?
Suspended in the pseudonym for all that feels the same
Every feeling of solitude and loneliness that has ever had a name
We, he and I, do our moral duty
And are shunned for all to see
With your heart torn out and fed to the birds that I used to believe in
But I think we're all just make-belief
A piece of fiction told in grim voices
'Let me tell you the troubles of the world'
It's my fixation. How it tears me so.
Flight is nothing when there's no ground beneath you
Floating in a void has no merit
You'll just never know you're falling
And forced flight is not freedom
It's just as much a prison cell
As when the bars are plain to see
Listen hard and you'll here the screams wrenched from me
A personal performance of our decadence
The epic is held deep within the eyes
Bloody feathers... the ironies of freedom
Oh but had we the way or the know how
To find the secret to paradise...
But is death not the only remedy
And yet the one ailment to which there's no cure
Have you heard of the whispered delirium?
A voice given to our desperate dispossession
Oh if only, oh but we had
The dissolution of desolation
