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Lyrics: In this age of overstimulation, crafted like a canvas of confusion, Not born from grace but sparked by knee-jerk fusion. For those who linger in the hush, too long in contemplation, Feel the brittle echo of their soul’s own desolation. Existence—thin as vapor, bare as bone, A truth too jagged for the crowd to own. So they vanish in the glow, retreat in haste, To pixelated sanctuaries and memories erased. We architect ambitions, chase applause and titles, Not for depth but for the shine that rivals idols. Status polished, self refined, a frame that’s clean, To give the chaos some illusion of a dream. We scroll through feeds, consume the endless stream, To fill the hollow where the soul might scream. Even joy’s a job now—smiles rehearsed, A mask that hides the ache, the thirst. And those who stumble, shed a tear, Get labeled weak, dismissed with fear. But happiness? Just silence dressed in art, A fleeting hush that numbs the heart. It’s not the void that haunts our sleep, But the dread that makes the silence deep. We can’t endure the scream that hides beneath, So we chase illusions stacked in wreaths. Distraction—our ritual, our sacred rite, A shield we raise against the endless night. We dodge the truth of power lost, pretend we steer the wheel, Control the body, fate, and sky—wrap myths around what’s real. We dress our fears in sacred lore, In politics, in faith, in science’s core. We chant of progress, shift the blame, But every creed repeats the same. Language tries to cage the storm, To name the void, to shape the form. We draw the lines, define the space, And pray the chaos finds its place. But primal helplessness remains concealed, We move to mask it, make it feel real. Then comes decay—our final guest, The truth we dress, the fate suppressed. The body wanes, the mind turns thin, Yet we deny the d**th within. We stage our youth, parade our grace, To challenge time’s relentless pace. But time’s a blade that cuts disguise, And leaves us bare beneath the skies. Medicine, fitness, anti-aging creed, All actors in a play where d**th still leads. Decay’s no flaw—it frames the game, The silent rhythm beneath the name. We don’t live by insight’s flame, But by avoidance cloaked in name. Distraction sings our lullaby, Our comfort when the stars run dry. We smile, we dance, we fake the grace, To blind ourselves from what will break. And maybe that’s the truest beat— The pulse beneath each heart’s deceit. Not wisdom, light, or grand design, Just silence we refuse to mine.
