Turning rhythmic with seeds of spoken word, A truth enigmatic devours voices never meaning to be heard. Releasing reason to the tendrils of our righteous birth, In depths of conscious we’ve become the pious dead. Following beckons of an ancient wasted hand, Twisting the tongues of lust for creations of wasted lands. Surrealist interpretations by martyrs to their lambs, The sands have gone, replaced by pools of red. Fret for the eyes lost beyond the beaten trail, And delivered brimstone from putrid coffins lined with nails. Amidst the breeze do I revel in the fading fallen heroes tale, I’m lost within, and we’ve broken down further once again. Intrinsic value of a sordid story yet untold, Which builds the heart of sinew pushing bloodlines to be sold. To beat the brash the newborns muster up their brawn and bold, What lies behind the children’s eyes is never to be said.