tell me why the son’s left cold;
why bent must break for solemn’s sake.
to live a life outside oneself –
the apparation clap and break.
tell me why the song we praise
when hearts are dead to every beat –
like soldiers marching in the night;
we’re blind and lost, curse every creak.
tell me why in black and white
the green is pure, the red is dead –
yet for a night my heart will melt
into the darkness, to the grave
tell me, what can you save?