Comatose (Inked In Blood)

Praxis is the touchtone of our thought. Minds inform our movement making music with our actions - we are all musicians; dancing to the beat of a thousand different drums - combined in tribal counterpoint - until the chaos is so loud it can no longer be heard, only felt - and these words are not spoken, but they are yelled. All of your words have fallen to the ground. You have sold yourself to vanity. I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you. But I don't believe a single tale from you. You scream of destruction and of anarchy. You writhe in the pain of a love once lost. But I don't buy a word, not one word. You sell what's true of yourself (for) vain silver. Every last drop of your blood runs cold; (you) stale cadaver. When did your heart last beat (you) whitewashed corpses? Your pulse has faded - your face so pale (you) stale cadaver. If this is oppression, your heart should be beating. If you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding. If this really hurts you, I should find you weeping. I've only just met you yet, I find that your comatose conviction means nothing to me. Choke on your glory. I won't let you suffocate what now lives. Art is the depth of our essence, it cannot be void of truth. The truth of your expression has withered - your wick has become cold. You cannot buy what's real. You cannot buy the truth.