Worship

The soul is gone from our dream all too soon, and I have laid my hands on every goal

So many dead, you would have thought we'd learn by now that the pinnacle is lower than all

Fiction is a lie that media presents, a silver cloud of objects

All attained, grasping hands pass on through because there's nothing there

She is strong and moves along, the television granite. The master will not answer now, just a mirage

Every time we try we fail. Illusion has pitfalled the path, sapping everything away, nothing will filter back

All our tears fall to the kitchen floor. The linoleum will not absorb

So we slip and slide in the afterbirth of greed, and so we fall to our knees

Crouched as if in worship, your god is empty