Born under black skies, with no expectations
We crawl through our paralyzing pantomime of life
Awaiting resurrection, the great unwashed seethe
In quiet desperation we accept our condition fatally

Is this the present? Can we call this life?
And for the future...utopian, dystopian, or death?

Thirty million voices, slogging through the undergrowth
As islands in prosperity, they fuel it with their blood
In total separation, they scavenge for their daily bread
Forgotten citizens, a class in themselves lost at sea

Is this the present? Can we call this life?
And for the future...utopian, dystopian, or death?

What have they worked for
...These dreams in the gutter, unspent?
Desire traded for dearth,
And Hope for destitution?

As eaters and eaten break bread
They learn their trades in time
But the teacher must be taught just as well
And as such this tragedy unfolds...

By PhMetal