If the clocks of time, could be turned back, by the turning of my hand.
If the sands of fate, could be over turned, by love, by my hate.
If the tables of the judgment halls, were still all round, and gilded, and bold.
I would raise my shining sword, unto the heights, of old.
And strike down from the heavens, a mighty blow.
That the land might crack, and swallow us whole.
A lesion, sick, In the side of our home.
A burning torch, to the strands of unknown.
No doubt left, in truth.
Only the blackened skies,
On an age old glory borne on the sunrise.
So drive me home, into the earth, and send me back, unto my birth.
Again, and again, to the skies, and below.
Neath’ earth, and soil, and breath, and curse.
Let us sleep under stars, once again clear and bright.
While the last breath, of our self constructed parasite.
Drifts on wings, black as night.
– by this dude, right now.