What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind;
where the world we want rears the world we hate. Lo!
pencils which tend to squeal upon slates; hence fetters
of silk upon sense are bind. The eye of the sun was red
as blood; we marched on forth through the streets of
Theories shattered beneath thus weight; we believed
their words and tuned them in. Lest we compress in
a sable state; stumbling back in light and shade agin.
Combat thus contrite chords in the hour of plight; a
white plumed battle of ferocious waves.
Torment, madness, tears and sin;
Can’t burn us up or paint our skin.
Photo credits: pheopic.ru