So here we are, built on victorian scars
Act 3: The attrition
No show of grace in division
No statement of intent
What's your intent?
If not for my bad luck, you'd have none at all
We've learned to kill our ideas
Before they turn to dreams
And lead our mind astray
As night fell
And drew its breath
It broke it's back
The light is gone out
In this palace no lions roar
The jesters crown is bourne by a whore
Whilst a rolling skyline begs for the limelight
To shed the shadow of the mountains
The forest grows thinner in winter
Just like patience in the Arab spring
Just like patients, in that abandoned wing
We thread the threat through the truth
Too smart for our own good
Read the breeze and feel it right Beneath those feet
Something festers and needs release
It needs to dream
So let it sing