Hoping for a mythical past we wipe away the chance for a fabled future
A golden age proves to be little more than the dream of the thrashing fevered body politic
We cling to false hopes and outright lies rather than face bitter truths
All the while barreling forward
One inexorable second at a time
Towards the crumbling hellscape of the world we have turned our backs on
While we build up the fiction of prosperity
And cling to ideals long since tarnished
Jagged metal piercing palms
Convincing ourselves that this isn’t blood
Its rain