No beacon of hope from the coming shore

Only absence of light in the open door

We can't feel the same as we did before

The Martyr deadbeat bleeds to death on the floor

Is it not from shame, in which you toil away, seeking to find what you've already thrown away.

Is it not man who desires your heart, servitude, in its purest form

No beacon of hope from the coming shore Only absence of light in the open door

Is it not from shame in which you toilet away seeking to find what you've already thrown away

One by one by one by one, the pieces never seem to fit, grasping a fraction of a life within a shallow breath

Crawling back to none

Crawling back to none

Crawling back to none

Crawling back to none

Crawling back to none