We all wear faces of kings, wisened images of majesty.
 Yet we're all one and the same, our facades ever pushed to schism.
 We recite bitter poetry, scorning the day's descent,
 Alienation's callous grip, urging us to decline the day.
 Each one of us searches the streets as restless nights and listless minds,
 Envelope our daily existence, devouring the will to breathe.
 Yet we find nothing but needless violence.
 Ultimate cowardice, actions instead of thoughts.
 We all look sideways, hoping to see familiar faces.
 All we find are trinkets staring back at us, expressionless.
 We are all cursed to walk gaia alone,
 Surrounded in kabuki, failed geishas.
 It's in the making, it's in the breaking, the theft of all rationale.
 In wake of reason we become tainted, entangled in bittersweet escapism
 Sidestep the issues at hand; transfixed as statues.
 A monument of sloth; we are progress squandered.
 In times of tribulation humanity gravitates to idols,
 in lieu of self-analysis, reanimate by proxy made flesh.
 Existence of idealism near-guarantees hopes and dreams.
 Yet, what are we but hollow men in this suburban wasteland?
 What worth is transcendence in a world of fools?
 Contented in squander they bask in the light of the noose,
 Impatiently waiting for a public display of brutality.
 Under a pretense of autonomy, we are animals.
 The death of art will be our undoing as we sever the ties to what makes us human.
 To retain hope in altruism is to surrender ones independence,
 Contented in squander.