And in the common ground of things Axioms become perversities
Down in the pit
On 42nd
faces faces faces
A girl, a guy
Who is innocent and who is damned?
We all run in small circles
Too afraid to fly
Because of our tainted wings
There is no faith
There is no hope
Here
In the pit
and in our denial
a river of despair
in which we constantly
try to swim
against the current
to our false truths
our hollow justifications
on why we act
in our chaotic ways
the businessman in chains
the whore upon her knees
each one slowly feeding
their own infectious dis-EASE
and with the glitter of the morrow
the sins shall disappear
until the dusk where
all those feelings
seem to reappear
with an eye of judgement
a jury of razors
and the hangman
but we never look up
for our pride is a chain
worn upon our clavette
for all to see
see? see?
look at me, look at me
it's too bad
that those who are really suffering
usually don't scream
because they are too busy weeping
too busy trying not to look
like despair is slowly raping their soul
on the side of the road
in a car
with the hazard lights on
but we, the tortured, feel righteous
being a victim to despair and her cruelty
for then we feel that
tiny
little
ping
of absolution