Will the hammer ever fall?

Will the iron ever be hot enough?

Clinging to the illusion of freedom

It’s not what you think that makes you who you’ll become in this life

Pitch black skies spare no stars for guidance

It’s what you do with your time that makes you who you are

Empty shrines provide no providence

Sweating bullets

White knuckled waiting for this fever to break

Fingers laced

Free falling hammers kiss the clean slate

Too little too late

You have been staying on your own, in a hyperviolet еstuary

I can’t seem to find out where we wеnt wrong

Our collective past bleeds into the future

Where angels reveal their true nature

Circling overhead just like vultures

Before the beginning

Without end