I walk out to the edge of the lake
Eyes following the water as it washes my convictions away
He stops me when I’m starting to pray

He says: “Intuition is awakening suspicion”
He says: “My tradition is the art of superstition”

I wake up in the light of the fire
Eyes burning like the ashes in submission to the heat of desire
He tells me not to preach to the choir

He says: “This condition is a slow decomposition”
He says: “My religion is the practice of sedition”

He says

He says “Intuition is awakening suspicion”
He says: “My tradition is the art of superstition”
“This condition is a slow decomposition”
He says: “My religion is the practice of sedition”