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Thränenkind
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The Blood on Our Hands
I am a wanderer. Blind amidst the twisted trails of night.
In search for light you are doomed to die in darkness.
Golden are only the reflections of the sinking sun
In the windows of their postmodern concrete caskets.
Gigantic monsters cough blackest death.
Self created downfall – a cynical cycle.
Utilitarian sickness within us all.
The pillars of our society:
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Bow down to the new gods
Wires wrapped around our necks
Send your prayers to the heavens
wait for their response and despair.
Mental regression - social suicide
Toxic depression - global ecocide
We breath with cancer in our lungs.
We'll die with plastic in our mouths.
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