The womb tomb

The needle is soft

And stiff is the hay

Nothing is wrong

And weakness is strong

More cultivates hope

Less widens the scope

If you must control us

Torture us and bind us

But not for to blind us

If you must despise us

And those of you who think that you are above us

You exist in every label

From the throne

To the cradle

You droop with disgust

And those who are just

Can see all the fuss

Of being against

As nothing but lust

Being taken too far

Abused and twisted into a monster thats hated

When lust is so good when there really is trust

Trust can only come forth

From the mountains of dust

That cover the mask

That proctects the face

When the mask is believed to be actually real

It must be erased

It makes us not care about each other

And the way we feel

And the way we treat one another

We should all see beneath the layers of separateness

Humanity at large

Must never fall back

To thoughts of domination

For when we lose our integrity

We stab our own backs

And cause separation

And the sleeping giants

That do lack

The diverse culture

To which we all belong

Are only ideals which some praise as strong

There they see themselves distorted and wrong

But we should all cultivate

The sacred plant which preaches a song

Of imperfect harmony

And never give our lives just to some ideal

We all feel what it means to be alive

To be us

But know nothing about it in truth to discuss

As the moons soft light

Builds our bones

And the suns ancient flames

Burn wisdom into our souls

False pride and false hope

Grow within you

Then you start to slip down the slope

Grasping a rope

Made out of wishes and dreams

That never gain scope

Supporting in vain

A cheap means to cope

With the endless disappointments

You gain a false name

Which you think is your identity

Your right and you claim

But all that it does is fill you with shame

When you just give more power

To the keepers of blame

That live above this valley of confusion

where we become disillusioned

Together we rise

Sickness will heal

In sanity's fields

In the farmland tapestry

Of the islands in the stream

The fertile land of the real

Not the bog of our dreams