We’re sick enough to spill someone else’s blood

Paint a picture of ourselves with it, and call it love

I guess that’s what the ego does

When it forgets the bodies we’ve become

Will eventually turn back to dust

We’ve held onto the worst parts of our nature

Tried to survive on rotten fruits of our labor—

Maggot filled and mangled flesh, should’ve seen it as a sign

But lately we’ve been complaining that the apple hasn’t been tasting right

Taste buds blossom and reach up for the taste of death

Spit spilling out our lips, smoke collecting in our chests

Hands erecting effigies where all of the ash collects

Man the flames we set ablaze, and call ourselves the architects

We didn’t plant this garden, no. It grew on its own

Now its starting to resemble all the bones we left below:

Palms open, hands stretched. Strangely I can never tell

If they’re reaching up to comfort us or asking us for help

Oh Eden, please believe

That the snake still slithers in our teeth

With the lies that we believe to satiate our endless need to be

Better than the barren land we leave beneath our battered feet

We watched skylines start to erupt

Saw cityscapes in the empty space that surrounded us

Burying the truth we knew we couldn’t sell:

Paradise was never lost. We stole it from ourselves