Man will hang from his own creations
with the pain taken a little more
as every shaking twitch finds its fit,
crawling down the spine.
Every aching itch flaking away
with every passing day.
The chord pulls tight under the weight of mankind,
and one day man may find their loss, but I guess
hindsight sees all.
Find sight, see all.
Find might, be all.

But maybe that's the problem. Too busy searching
for the cause of the ache to pause and wake to what
we've created.
Self-medicated, in need of a mediator
with the creator hiding between our ears.
I hope one day it's clear that our destiny rests in
me and you, I hope that we drop the dope and
clear the smoke that's choking us to death.