it's raining consequence and we have abandoned our stations to find refuge under parasols. this moment's bliss has eclipsed under weight as we become the thieves stealing the spotlight from our previous deeds. acting more like our shadows, the uninspired apprentices of nostalgia, blacklisting memory on to perceive we've been impeded by our own means. a scrap heaped pleasantry details that these are the times of our lives. we have forgotten how to feel we have forgotten how to dream. this is our security. a gift has been given that we fail to embrace. it's come to overlooking purpose for the sake of certainty. is this what we live for? is this why we breathe? is this what we live for? is this what we live for? from this ruin comes a message to which our bodies have taken cue, and through a series of simple motions it seems we have lost our way. like wandering locusts guided by an embittered compass. ourhearts are filled with pestilence we have become the newest plague. inhale young desire. exhale one crippled faith. we're left to question the path we've walked onto. each step ripe with insult simply furthering distance condoning disconnection. weakened wrists sweating to keep the banners waving, keep the children singing the pulseless humns withered and edited to spiritless recitals. motivated only by numbers, hollow in form and content. what once was has now become a charity case, a sympathy fuck, god's personal stepping stone. once more playing the anxious exhibitionist parading achievements like a severed head. this is a miscarriage, a revered union of ghosts. each mask worn like a coward's grin, the sacrifice of a lizard's tail. an essence gathered in bloom like a rain harvested before it falls. dinner theatre for the jackals feasting on the glorious corpses. the remnants curl down like a crashing wave forming a river of concrete that we all have come to bathe in. dance in her waters, the quicksand a trapdoor. the linear entombment of honesty. come sympathy and kiss the heads of the wounded. such gentle sedation this needle this murder. curse of the hourglass bending the daydream backwards into black hole the achievement of nothing the installment of an uninspired calm. is this what we live fore? is this why we breathe? to make martyrs of ourselves to destroy everything. the gift of life has become of constant burden. regret murmured and then they were...


Lyrics submitted by VampedVixen

And Then They Were Mute song meanings
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