Letter To The Exiles Open Graves
Now we are slaves to our own history,
new architects of divine treachery.
When it's over what becomes of you and I?
The bastard sons of a gentile line.
There are open graves, desecration our human hands have
made.
I am throwing myself to the abyss, and the ashes prove
the flame.
This is what I know of faith.
I offer this, some compensation for consequence.
I test my method, some expression of my repentance.
Now to the architect, construct of imagination,
I leave his body as my free-will's evidence of a failed
design.
I am throwing myself to the jackals.
What becomes of you and I?
The bastard sons of a gentile line.
We're not the hollow vessels,
we're not forgotten slaves.
We're not an abstract concept.
We are not open graves.
Now watch it burn to the ground.
Watch as I will tear it down.
I will break this earth, I will watch it burn.
This is offered to you:
Can you hear the sound of truth, it's calling out to you.
I have one truth, given to me and offered to you.
What is dead will rise again.
