Confused conjucture breeds many different lies
It becomes the screaming banshee of our time, wicked as one can see through our rose colored glasses
It is like a pocketwatch that has been wound up too tight, the springs have sprung on the inside
Demented through the years, they become uncertain with time itself, grey and cloudy
Pressed against the center stage, a voice rang ill-fated truths to all ears, but no one was listening
Pushed out of the seat of demise, we stare back at the crimes, allowing a dismal approach to our self conscience
It is to say four be six in a different view only to sit below the compass of the operators
We can imagine many things forfeiting who we are, bleeding rituals of cultural disbelief, we turn around and see
So be the right or wrong, it becomes a sense of our moral code, when do we pick it up and put in our pocket though
