The great truth is there isn't one 

And it only gets worse since that conclusion 

The irony of being an extension to nothing 

And the force of inertia is now a vital factor 

And there is despair underneath each and every action 

Each and every attempt to pierce the armour of numbness 

Burning bridges becomes a habit to support 

And the front line expands like there's no tomorrow 

I envy the maggots 

Their stuff at least sticks together 

Better than laudations of misinformed seers 

And those are lengthy annals of shame that we work with 

It's like dumping dead meat at the brink of Styx 

With a barge that we made of what was left of Yggdrasil 

After veterans of spiritual revolts were done with their armchairs 

And I don't even remember which brink is which 

The odour of sanctity is just refined stench of existence 

Shining pearl of Augeas' crown pales in comparison 

Each and every attempt to pierce the armour of numbness 

And there is despair underneath each and every action 

Burning bridges becomes a habit to support 

And the front line expands like there's no tomorrow 

The grotesque eagles of misfortune, well fed on Thanatos, sit still 

It's the dignity of scavengers at the ever growing garbage dump of life 

There is something about the rigid posture of a proper, authentic blind 

As if extended arms reached to pass his blindness onto oth