Tired Climb

Achievements present compost of past wars, human history, a tragic performance. Progress remains non-existent, these seasons constant, as we strive for perfection. Oh, here come the martyrs. Here to seek the attention and praise of the livestock and remedial. And we have sought out love, peace, and clarity by threatening the weak and numb, painting their faith black with absence and misunderstanding. We will conform to convert, but will we learn to see ourselves and love? You are not one to know. Cast aside our sins, our absolves, and our adjustments. Ignore all which makes us human, but not our greed. We're here to bleed what he creates. How loving is this? Your covenant is a crypt. I don't expect you to foresee what you're becoming. Ive put all my trust in you, and you spat it back out at me. We built the temples that never saw praise. Our testimonies appeal only to the demented and depraved. Our assumptions lead us astray, with no direction, a society of blind followers descend into disarray. Doomed to a repetition of sleepless nights. A routine but without hope. Without answers, without rebirth, dark days foreseen. All creation wilting, with no remorse for love. We fight a war for fuel and respect, but none for him above. Our future, teetering on a cliff side. Stillborn children stand as example. A future without conception seems appropriate, farewell procreation. Infertility, the final plague. Normality, here we come. And, the scholars! With their faith placed in chance and their own flawed methods. You are no savior, you're an obstruction. So bow your head below creation, for we are your children that will pave your last path, bury the elderly in the graves they deserve. Dead generations of ignorance and fear, now things of the past. Be with him, and leave us to save the world.

Rapture here, for the worst of us, at no payment. Rapture here, here for us, the poor and weak. Never getting further. Our righteous generation emerges from the ashes of what would have been the end. This is all I've ever dreamed of. We'll love like he did, help as we have been helped. They'll dream him dying, they'll dream him slain, and we will know him as our savior. Hope will not die. We will survive. Never forget.

The system that hung our fathers will run out of rope,
And we will stand outside the gates to make sure they never find home.