Praxis is the touchstone of our thought. minds inform our movement making music with our actions. we are all musicians; dancing to the beat of a thousand different drums combined in tribal counterpoint until the chaos is so loud, it can no longer be heard, only felt. and the words are not spoken but they are yelled.
all of your words have fallen to the ground
you have sold yourself to vanity
I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you
but I dont believe a single tale from you
you scream of destruction and of anarchy
you writhe in the pain of a love once lost
but I dont buy a word, not one word
you sell what's true of yourself
(for) vain silver
every last drop of your blood runs cold
(you) stale cadaver
when did your heart last beat
(you) whitewashed corpse
your pulse has faded, your face so pale
(you) stale cadaver
if this is oppression, your heart should be beating
if you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding
if this really hurts you, I should find you weeping
I've only just met you, yet I find that
your comatose conviction means nothing to me
choke on your glory
I wont let you suffocate what now lives
art is the depth of our essence
it cannot be void of truth
the truth of your expression has withered
your wick has become cold
you cannot buy what's real
you cannot buy the truth