Untitled

Maybe we're all the one who's messed up
Dropping apologies like spoiled fruit on the ground
Or maybe we're all just forced attendees
Of a mix between a funeral, boot camp and masquerade ball
Where everyone lies
And everyone dies
To the beating of the marching drum
And the sound of the sergeant's cry

But this blood upon my palm
Reminds me that I'm still around
And so is everything else around me
That I can scrape and scratch my soul on
So come on you unbelievers
You shan't stand before this army
For we are armed with faith
Faith with the ground on which we walk
And the air with which we talk
And the God for which we speak
For all among us will die loved
From the quiet hero to the vocal freak
We are here

I will let my words enslave no one
But let them decide how they will
Make the truth contained in them.