Run
Run, my child, run along
Mark the cross on your door
Run to the West
Run, my child, run along
And bury all my bones
And there's no-one here to save you
And there's no-one here to save you
Run
Run, my child, run from them
Run from the wrongs you've done
Run to the End
Run, my child, run from them
Witness the end again
And you thought you were a saviour?
No-one here felt any different, no
Did you think that you could save them?
Well, I did, too
I beheld a fever!
The passage of aeons upon the mountain
A graduate from the archon of thought
Like those who had came before
I reviewed the idea of evil and passed it as law
Amidst the culpable, I sequestered myself
To the chamber of woe and drank my fill
Of the cup I had poured, one whom I deeply adored
And I wept in poor faith
In positing the question
I let fly the blade
Of my own ruination
I stuffed my beak with fragnant spices
I retreated into the mountain, in futile hope of escape
And nestled beneath, the word made empty
I could not remain
In my eminent humanity, I ruminated upon the cross
Behold, the right hand of God!
The Genesis of loss!
Behold, this most fruitless of rhetoric
Providence, of course, sought no alternative
Here, the sadistic flourishes and denigrates
With great vigour, any trace of mere goodness
Behold, this most fruitless of rhetoric
So in due course, absence sought joy
And desperately clawed at the soil in search of light
In homecoming is reckoning
To emancipate the seeker from the divine
I beheld a fever!
The occultation of madness
The denigration of self in service of the divine
When there's people who can save you
I, too, observed this most fatal of flaws
No-one here feels any different
We need not be alone