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!