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Handed down to us
A deeper lie we can not name
Your fabricated truth
Diseased and absent of meaning
A script so devoid,
of truth, of mercy, of compassion
Empty threats
A souvenir of remembrance

Those not undead but unseen
Of unknown name and origin
Hunted, pursued, hated

The black death
In the eyes of the ignorant
Who hunt in packs
In the empty nothingness
The mill of our times grinds a story
About lives lived and hollow apathy

Where solitude is sacred
And where by greed they command
Hunted, pursued, hated
They command
They command

Skeleton structures
Born to be ruins
Smeared histories
and scratched timelines

Underlying impulses
Once deserted
Gazing at the bolted door
A map leading you
Hunting you to taking a fall
Pull the trigger
On angst and wasted time
Fire to fear their associates

Your decisions carry the weight of them
Laying bare their thoughts
Soft murmurs spiraling through
Migrates to those willing to hear

Our voice speaks so low
Never owned our past
Wander the long road through

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Rites Of Separation

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