 Old Ghosts, those regrets find new homes in ones and zeroes
and they haunt me to this day.
Counteracting any revelation that my travels have revealed
nothing more than a joke.
With nothing more than more cheap jokes.
There was a whole lot of life to live before all those lives became
more than just a string of lies.
To feed our appetite.
Son of Son of Man and the ironic sarcastic refute.
Son of Son of Man and the testament of all thoughts little.
It dulls the spark begging all who dare dream back into denial
where so called “legends” drive mini vans and forgot
they could break and bleed
on the god damned floor and never feel so damn alive.
This, this life, this string of attempts to undermine your love.
To make it no more than a commodity, laughable at best.
Son of Son of Man, do your worst, do worse than me.
We'll talk down the road.
Life as commerce is an unforgiving master
and lust is a bitch of a mistress.
Drifting in and out back and forth only by the strength of addiction.
And even now sucking the salt out of every word.
damnit, come on.
Prove me a fool, prove to me this is more than milk toast
attempts at easing our minds.
Numbing our drive for something that's more.
More than ourselves.
More easily digested bites
More than something I could deliver.
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