They say that losing all hope is freedom.
Well, I'm an inmate, a cellmate, a slave,
paralyzed and comatose from nothing,
and the same nightmare is still repeating.
Your sins have always been my confessions,
told to priests only through a dusty screen.
Butterflies corrode on a cold altar
on the other side of this wooden door...
And blood drips from a hundred empty pews,
coagulating with the face of God.
Maybe tomorrow, the building will burn,
but for now I kneel in quiet darkness.
They say that losing all hope is freedom.
Well, I'm an addict, a junkie, a creep,
still raping devotion with desire,
but this needle isn't clean anymore. |