Kill the Architects
Verse 1
A burnt church, searing with the flames of hypocrisy, shimmers over the sunlit fields of ruin
Watchtowers, searchlights, gates
pounded to rubble by ethereal breath.
The bare sand glints, incandescent little rocks, Martians blending into the scenery
vibrating to the tune of hymns.
A sinner's madness simmers under the surface, landscapes of silver pyramids and bleached trees in a desert of black sand.
The mind of a thief is safe from everything, haunts and ghouls trapped in pumpkins.
The roots of doubt and guilt have not yet leeched into the sanctum, but the seeds have been planted
so the edges of the scythe glimmer in the sunlight that it obscures.
Yellow daffodils grow next to dandelions
borders too convoluted to follow, flower to weed to weed to flower to tree.
And with every spring comes new bloom
Cold blood, old memories, and bone moons.

Verse 2
We lived at a time
when you couldn't speak out.
You just kept quiet,
and swallowed
everything.
Every black mirage
every arch we built ourselves
every injustice
we would swallow to fill the emptiness that filled our stomachs, our homes, our hearts.
Skeletons, walking
zombie-like
with bloated stomachs,
doomed to writhe in pain
making our tortured way to the gallows,
the sacrificial grounds
to die, black lambs, black sheep.
We walked through arches, warped crosses
that scream 'kill the architects'
the clinical self-destruction of efficiency
because in the hypocrisy of the motherland, nothing is wasted
except the lives of children.
Children, at the fresh grave of their peers,
dreaming of the trivial pleasures, the treasure of transience
of which they were deprived.
To love and be loved, the gift of humanity, Nature's law
But Führer's law dictates that your only gift is to live.
I prayed every day
for freedom, until I saw my sister grow wings, and fly with our family into the hole she dug in the ground,
and now,
I pray that one day,
I see you hanging by the thread of the needle that tattooed the sound of your name into every inch of my body.
Verse 3
So I stand in the shadow of the wrong shade of ghosts
listening to the sound of sinister figures swarming to the charisma of a singular picture
the man who kissed the black lips of the Angel of Death.
I listen to the memories resonate
the cries of people standing on the edge of a knife
teetering on the precipice, the valley of death and the insurmountable mountain of life.
Sons killing their father's other sons
and yet the foresight to see only sun, and sun, and sun
To know that beyond one night of despair and the barrel of a gun
is sunshine.
So on the nights when you rail against God, when tragedy strikes and your cries punch the sky into submission,
remember that bruises fade, and the sun will still come out the next day.