Apatheia

We have become fevered seers We've strayed our path far from the meek We feed the pain we cannot kill With seeds of hemlock and stems of golden weath We cannot help but start to reel And lose all kind of urge to think We clutch the shroud against our skins As a reminder of who we might have Been but nothingness A simulacrum of a man Only a vision of despair Measure of your indifference A beast as shallow as the rest An imitation of a friend A sickness leading into death A sunrise coming from the west We do not saw what we won't reap We soak our bread on gasoline We cleanse the wounds we fail to heal The blood we bleed drips from our fingertips We walk among this barren fields We spoil the soil beneath our feets We will not stop, we will not grieve We were not born to mourn but we were born to scream Cross the Styx