There's a shadow of false hope speaking through the speakers.
It's a swifter social status, it's irony before we had it.
Burning pillows and dirty sheets,
it didn't mean a thing as we hid our faults.
Our crimes disappear with the times.
Your majesty, I'm sorry but your head is on the line.
Send us to the guillotine to save ourselves,
there's no one else who can save us now.
We are the guilty ones in crashing down when the day is done.
When the sun sets we will die.
We've sacrificed our lives for a lesser good.
Grace was a mark tattooed on the lower side
of a pregnant virgin's bottom half expanding in nine months of time.
We thought we could be saved, we thought we were perfection
when Milgram proved us wrong with experimentation,
the stratosphere holds guilty hearts aligned in miscommunication.
Bloody fingerprints beat the trail of bread crumbs
back to where we came from,
back to a past we feared would be the same as an empty future,
spoken on the broken minds.
A crystal ball won't tell the time but only says what it fears time will be.
Time will be guilty, ask yourself where you went wrong
and tell yourself to sing along
to tunes of these death-marches on the field of dying grass and hazy air.
Would you be afraid to go there only to determine a more bloody fate?
(Nails scratch away dead skin lined on concrete torches
to keep the flame going, to give us sight for the road ahead).
We fear the tide ahead.
We leave the guilt behind.
We turn our face away,
away from distant crimes.
We burn our bridges in the moments just before we jumped
off of them into an ocean of the dark.
If we can't look up, we just look down.
If the guillotine won't take us, we will jump and we will drown.