A cicada shell;
it sang itself
    utterly away.

Quiet now children
Trailing your ****** rags
The lights must go out
Back to your cells
Back into your minds
Each of you
Retreat into your personal hell and nirvana
Toss and turn
quietly now...
Burn - be reborn
in remembrance of the torture and the pain

We can all be the village
Carry her bones through the streets
Raise her as our own
As though she is alive

The wind whistles into her skin
Gusting through her body
She is not alive
Her muscles mechanically quiver
Trying to bring warmth to the congealed veins

But if she gave up so long ago
Her heart refusing to pump again
Why shouldn't her body sleep too?
Rest my child
Hush, hush.

When will art die?
Maybe when darkness covers the sky,
Or when we **** each other in atomic war
And our bombs destroy the earth's core
Will art fade away?
When there's nothing left to say,
Will art go out with the sun?
Or be taken away with a gun,
What will be the last song or dance?
Will it end in Kansas, or Paris France?
Who'll make the last painting?
Will they know? Their hands shaking,
Will anyone even cry?
On the day art will die...
But i have to admit,
Seeing the end would be quite a hit,
Second only to the beginning,
When art goes out exploding

We're a generation
of bad habits
and hypocrites
that'll do whatever
it takes to be happy;
whatever it takes
to supposedly
remain free.                
        
         Because
         the truth is;
                  we're all addicted
                 to something.

And   we     let       it       get
       the    best    of      us