Act 3: The Attrition

So here we are, built on victorian scars Act 3: The attrition No show of grace in division No statement of intent What's your intent? If not for my bad luck, you'd have none at all We've learned to kill our ideas Before they turn to dreams And lead our mind astray As night fell And drew its breath It broke it's back The light is gone out In this palace no lions roar The jesters crown is bourne by a whore Whilst a rolling skyline begs for the limelight To shed the shadow of the mountains The forest grows thinner in winter Just like patience in the Arab spring Just like patients, in that abandoned wing We thread the threat through the truth Too smart for our own good Read the breeze and feel it right Beneath those feet Something festers and needs release It needs to dream So let it sing