The Harvest

Shell-proof and safety locked The boxes round their heads Isolated and stored Ego-wired to the core In a frenzy the merry-go-round Of their monkey minds The optical delusion Of their consciousness grimed Depressing ignominies And godless mockeries They're dancing on the graves Of the ones they made slaves Voracious bloodbath Leaving life-mocking strands For the bowls of wrath Were found in their own hands All the pain and death And all the seeking and all the breaking It has not been in vain For with every strike of the threshing flail The harvest, it will end this bloody reign Their eyes turned away from heaven Underyoked and downtrodden By all things fucking hostile To the nature of the soul Leaving gutted scorched earth On their rapine damned For the bowls of wrath Were found in their own hands All the pain and death And all the seeking and all the breaking It has not been in vain For with every strike of the threshing flail The harvest, it will break these crushing chains Depressing ignominies And godless mockeries They're dancing on the graves Of the ones they made slaves Voracious bloodbath Leaving life-mocking strands For the bowls of wrath Were found in their own hands (Nothing will be left but graven words, and only the stones will tell of their piety) All the pain and death And all the seeking and all the breaking It has not been in vain For with every strike of the threshing flail The harvest, it will break these crushing chains All the silence and all the light And all the breath and death will soothe the haunting pain For with every blow of the reaping hook The harvest will end this fucking reign