This could be a love song, only the eloquence that
drips from the lips of media sirens is a vacant one
Loose veracity sells, buffed and polished with the spittle of
a trillion anguished lovers, all snuffed into the infinite pitch
that is history's apathy to the weak
and anonymous
Reality's fabric is a harsh one my dear
Curb your magnanimity, this world's greed chafes the
soul of the dreamer
Embrace the arbitrary, it is your passport to
the tear in reality's shroud
slither through and breathe free of
the stench of humanity's avaricious rot,
we died long ago.