The Synthetic Skin We’re In

I light another cigarette
Up against the burning sky
Beneath the hanging tree
At the dying of the day

No sentiment no hope it seems
No deeper meaning to these electric dreams
Just cynicism and sarcasm
Delivered in a narcissistic way

Beneath the blue which turns to black
Beyond the point where there is no back
Before the glitter and after all the blood
Beside what all the preachers say

The angels fly on weathered leather wings
Dressed as paupers and rode by kings
Singing sad songs to the middle class
Silently weeping before sleeping where they lay

And across these hands of time that sin
No sympathy beneath this synthetic skin
Neither past or present just a being of glass
Futures shattered beneath these grains of grey