Where snow falls and fluid flows chilled,
Across the vast oceans, where the air stands still.
Stands the throne of something hindered, strewn away in a cave.
An embodiment of soul, lacking a spirit unscathed.
Single seed of twilight, stillborn, that scours the sand;
Husk of dawn that treads the light, neither ghost nor man.
A storage for one's burdens, cast to rot in a room;
As it grows to form masses of shadowed platoons.
A tainted taste of tyranny, taunting the innermost thoughts;
Follow-up on devil's misery, old Beelzebub's curse.
Face of this world, of what it came to be
Where people walk the graves hoping a trade would decree.
Technological universe of spaces, faces and posts;
Pictures no longer speak half the thousand words they spoke.
Stick-man in cloth troll the streets all but bare,
Audibly crackling in the heat of the hot sun's stare.
Asylum for the lost, withered and weak,
To those who earn a lifetime in the span of one week.
Demographic separation of the rich and the meek;
Geographic delegations of suburbs and the streets.
Cities are built high to compete around the globe;
Each nation is rising higher with their morals sinking low.
World wide disputes over who found home first;
Irrational international intentions are exposed.
I think it's not farfetched to say such a place could change;
Miracles are granted, that is;
They are waiting to be made.
So don't you dare to lose this internal war,
This was only about our hearts and what dwells within their walls.
Across the vast oceans, where the air stands still.
Stands the throne of something hindered, strewn away in a cave.
An embodiment of soul, lacking a spirit unscathed.
Single seed of twilight, stillborn, that scours the sand;
Husk of dawn that treads the light, neither ghost nor man.
A storage for one's burdens, cast to rot in a room;
As it grows to form masses of shadowed platoons.
A tainted taste of tyranny, taunting the innermost thoughts;
Follow-up on devil's misery, old Beelzebub's curse.
Face of this world, of what it came to be
Where people walk the graves hoping a trade would decree.
Technological universe of spaces, faces and posts;
Pictures no longer speak half the thousand words they spoke.
Stick-man in cloth troll the streets all but bare,
Audibly crackling in the heat of the hot sun's stare.
Asylum for the lost, withered and weak,
To those who earn a lifetime in the span of one week.
Demographic separation of the rich and the meek;
Geographic delegations of suburbs and the streets.
Cities are built high to compete around the globe;
Each nation is rising higher with their morals sinking low.
World wide disputes over who found home first;
Irrational international intentions are exposed.
I think it's not farfetched to say such a place could change;
Miracles are granted, that is;
They are waiting to be made.
So don't you dare to lose this internal war,
This was only about our hearts and what dwells within their walls.