Do you see? Can you see? Will you feed these glaring inconsistencies? Or did you barter at the gates for two blind eyes?
Give yourself over with wits bound. Rope taking all of your conscience and wisdom and breath now. Baptize yourself in this river of doubts, and never come out! I know the questions outnumber the answers, but my hope is pure and here with you, knelt at your throne-point of your blade splicing my shoulder blades. I am invested in this. (And now) a cogent simile: an architect's building, a source of pride. An accomplishment retched through a pinhole in the heart of father time. And moment's pass, structures fail or fall or get the sweet kiss of a wrecking ball in the name of protest or progress or time, while the architect stands idly by. But where in this simile am I? This is my confessional, and I see you as the congregation, swaying in the vestibule. My words like a catapult, your faces like catalogues of bravery, despair and desire. We're all waiting for someone to save us. We're all shouting wishes into the thick, black sky-calling out to the flashing lights of the airplanes passing by. A generation mired in sirens, a voiceless choir with our spirits on the chopping block, and a conscience for hire. But the sky, but the sky, but the sky is on fire. Raise your hands to meet the flames. But the sky, but the sky, but the sky is on fire with stars tonight. And they spray-painted it on the walls of the section eight housing all lined-up like bathroom stalls: what's money if you don't have any? What's a dream if you're so scared you can't fall asleep? It's so funny I can hardly retain my rights. We're all positioned in their line of sight, all lined up to see the dying of the light, and without a god to bless this mess I confess all my fears to you.
Give yourself over with wits bound. Rope taking all of your conscience and wisdom and breath now. Baptize yourself in this river of doubts, and never come out! I know the questions outnumber the answers, but my hope is pure and here with you, knelt at your throne-point of your blade splicing my shoulder blades. I am invested in this. (And now) a cogent simile: an architect's building, a source of pride. An accomplishment retched through a pinhole in the heart of father time. And moment's pass, structures fail or fall or get the sweet kiss of a wrecking ball in the name of protest or progress or time, while the architect stands idly by. But where in this simile am I? This is my confessional, and I see you as the congregation, swaying in the vestibule. My words like a catapult, your faces like catalogues of bravery, despair and desire. We're all waiting for someone to save us. We're all shouting wishes into the thick, black sky-calling out to the flashing lights of the airplanes passing by. A generation mired in sirens, a voiceless choir with our spirits on the chopping block, and a conscience for hire. But the sky, but the sky, but the sky is on fire. Raise your hands to meet the flames. But the sky, but the sky, but the sky is on fire with stars tonight. And they spray-painted it on the walls of the section eight housing all lined-up like bathroom stalls: what's money if you don't have any? What's a dream if you're so scared you can't fall asleep? It's so funny I can hardly retain my rights. We're all positioned in their line of sight, all lined up to see the dying of the light, and without a god to bless this mess I confess all my fears to you.