The life one desires but is never given
Your dream dances on my palm
Within the endless cycle I grow close to death
Never again spoken to power
My being has opened, producing a contorted figure in the light
Now a deprived illusion of I

Absorb the warmth of our presence
Mend the tear of your dream

Enthralled by death and its double
We are cured of Hope
Feeble and insufficient
There is none left to disparage

Our skin is an affliction and every scar a wound
Speech now masturbatory tragedy
Which path must we take to reach tomorrow?
What must we give up to get there?

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