Save from your being what creates your life-song!
As you are known to me you're not wrong.

Don't cower at the sight of the sacred syndicate son.
His business is you and he won't let you run.

He traps in your mind the ghosts in the glass,
Makes you wallow in pain while circuits all laugh.

If you stow all your guilt in a world in a box,
The creeping yellow journal screams when it talks.

"YOU'RE WRONG!
I'M RIGHT!
IF YOU TRY,
YOU JUST MIGHT,
FIND SALVATION FROM YOURSELF,
WHEN I TAKE CHAINS TO BIND YOU TIGHT!"

I realize what death from cages stole my life away at once.
To shut the gate on cynical hate I reload and **** my gun.

3 quick shots the syndicate feels before he falls to the ground:
The individual's sound,
The life full round,
And deaths toll on truth unwound.