Sear the guilt throbbing in our
|
heads, now we sleep in our blood
|
beds. Rid ourselves of God, the
|
crutch, our broken legs don't hurt
|
so much.
|
|
Reaching forward, falling back, the
|
more we progress, the more we lack.
|
|
At Nagasaki we built a sun right on
|
the ground. At least we won. Use
|
the pretty, lose the rest, it's evolution
|
at its best.
|
|
Lay in beds of anger, talking in our
|
sleep. Mumble words of vengeance,
|
songs of world peace.
|
|
The incense of our progress is the
|
burning of the weak. The wound is
|
self-inflicted even as we speak!
|
|
-----------------
|
Progress
|
| Crashdog |
