Superstition
Clouding way of one's ambition
Providing hope with false ammunition
Fear of change
Repetition
Stay the same
Society plays into this little game
Inducing fear
By whispering in one's ear
The end is near
No time for reflection
For its the dawn
Of slavery's resurrection
Only now its our mind
Which will be bind
Products of this world
We're no better than our possessions
Longing for freedom
Yet unwilling to admit our obsession
With perfection
The mirror reveals
A hazy reflection