Architects Lyrics

Father was a friend
He said, "Son, you will be safe
If you know the devil's hands are yours,
Just as they are mine.
You are Jesus of your own disease.
Its ironic, cause its true."
He took my hand and told me,
"Son, this world is yours: Create."
The Architect
His Wandering Opus
Is at variance.
Constituents without accord.
(Curious, I grow.
Was I meant to know
The words my father spoke
My hands became the demons)
The Vagabond
Methodically trudges
Through bitterness,
Through dissonance,
And dour groves.

We're such wicked fiends:
We are the monsters.
Empathetic beings:
We are the saviors.
So maybe we are flawed
Fallen into disrepair.
Inherently we are
The Architect's
Exquisite Creation,
A faulty mess
Of diagrams and partial notes.

We're such wicked fiends:
We are the monsters.
Empathetic beings:
We are the saviors.
We can fall away from here
We can fall away from here

Empathetic beings:
We are the saviors.
We're such wicked fiends:
We are the monsters.

Father was a friend
He said, "Son we will be safe."
But I just can't shake the devil's hands.
They're yours and mine to keep.
Jesus of our own disease
Its ironic, cause its true.
If we create this world my god come save us.

[Ell]