Our God has forgotten our world
But we would rather float alone
We would rather own this home

No renting from judgment
Hypocritical clockwork
Every six minutes
Another empty phrase

This isn't just a warning
About the empty globe
This is a promise

Truly an apocalyptic nostalgia
Nebulae will fill the skies
The clouds will dissolve into green madness
It will be the most beautiful night of our lives

Souls have vacated all mankind
Only a few remain in right mind
We're the last to drift alive
But it won't matter by the end of night

The final hour is upon us

It's 3 in the afternoon

Trees all bearing fruit laughing
Gassing animals with broken hulks
Rusted on the roadside

The grass goes on and splits the mountains
The temperature begins to build
My hand and your hand
My glass and your sand

A broken mirror in the rocks
A final breath before it stops