Within these walls I am confined.
Thrust over our eyes solely to blind.
Is it trespassing when we feel at home?
Amongst the truth which remains untold?
Who is the arbiter in this
Travesty you choose to dismiss?
You have people running for their lives.
The hatred you feed contrives…
Everybody and their lives
Fields of green, lakes of crystal,
Motion turmoil of umber and life.
Fields of green, lakes of crystal,
Motion turmoil of umber and life.
Fields of green, lakes of crystal,
Motion turmoil of umber and life.
With our doubt still intact.
Curious of new discoveries which you’ve left unproven.
It keeps me up at night. A fault or flaw. I slight.
Am I the casualty of my own circumstance?
You’ll be soon to see.
Yet to suffer an epiphany.
You’ll be soon to see.
Yet to suffer an epiphany.
Break the boy my mother spat out.
I’m not a patron saint,
Never something so quaint.
You’re not a god to man but to the robots you forsake.
Break the boy my mother spat out.
I’m not a patron saint,
Never something so quaint.
You’re not a god to man but to the robots you forsake. More from Voices From The Fuselage