Where a warmth of fire once stoked my passions,
Now I only recognize the sorrowfulness of cold,
And those words that dropped from my lips,
They use to mean so much more than now,
But as a child's idols die they know their heart is weak,
It's hard to count the beat as it slows and dies,
And we slowly are dying from something so silly,
To so bizarre a death as to be worthy of the Dark Ages,
I feel my soul tortured and torn asunder,
And there is just a pain of loss a frustration,
For with iconoclasm comes a void,
With anarchy and revolution comes a gentle desperation,
Yes today I feel it hang in the wind as my mind withers,
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