Legends live And Heroes die Villains rule And mothers cry As the last Pillar falls Our king dethroned, On parchment scrawls: Weep not for those who've passed. Or for your hopes and dreams dispatched. Weep not for your fallen kin, for soon you will see them again. Under our morose moon's bloom Asunder no more, lurking gloom. Unselective in it's all-collective misanthropy. A perfect machine of misery. Awake, aware. We are the progenitors of our end of days. A malevolent entity resides in each one of our homes. We're writing our own epitaph. We're building our own cenotaph. But we're blundering regardless, And it's encumbering our catharsis. We're writing our own epitaph. Killing by writ. Killing by rote. (We've) Personified hatred into a perfect machine of misery built to castigate us. We're writing our own epitaph. We're building our own cenotaph. But we're blundering regardless, And it's encumbering our catharsis. We're writing our own epitaph.