The basic faceless backstage mob hides
behind intimate antiquities of masked martyrs
parading for stark redemption through
streets of erethic paranoia
Inertia builds in the anarchistic youth
attempting to asphyxiate needless affliction
looking to twisted syringes to carve eloquence
into their empty flesh
Nobody's askin for your
angels to lead us to our
paraplegic destinations
And at the apex of calamity
this porcelain planet is laced with obsolete
collisions of dust and screams
in the sprained minds of the youth
looking to implicit syringes for fluency
crashing into madness will
stagnate the increasing entity of insanity
