We are not the sons of God. We are not His chosen people now. We have crossed the path He trod. We will feel the pain of it beginning. . Shadow fingers rise above.
On and on. . Born in a mining town in 58. When black and white T.V. was up to date and men were still around. Who fought for freedom, stood their ground and died.
The mark is on you now. The furnace sealed inside your head. Melting from the inside now. Waxy tears run down your face. . The whore that never told her tale.
A silent river flowin' black. Strange attractors, no turnin' back. Present danger I recall. That pins my senses to the wall. . Back from the edge. (Back from the edge).