Driving the pack, from the rear, with a trumpet, with an axe.
Driving to the precipice, windswept and wet with starving neglect.
Eternally carving my causeon a landscape that's blighted and scorched.
I'm blighted and scorched with the truth, we don't listen, we shoot, from the blindside.
It's a landslide, but in hindsight, I thought it was easier.
But it's all much too late to turn back,
I must face an eternally fateless way in a place where my orders echo my torturous ghosts.
In a space with no windows, I'm counting the touch.
All this time to reflect on my crimes to humanity.
I'm screaming profanities, just give me a chance to start over again.
I confess, yes, I'll do it again.