Praxis is the touchtone of our thought
Minds inform our movement making music with our actions -
We are all musicians; dancing to the beat of a thousand different drums -
Combined in tribal counterpoint - until the chaos is so loud it can no longer be heard,
Only felt - and these words are not spoken, but they are yelled
All of your words have fallen to the ground
You have sold yourself to vanity
I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you
But I don't believe a single tale from you
You scream of destruction and of anarchy
You writhe in the pain of a love once lost
But I don't buy a word, not one word
You sell what's true of yourself (for) vain silver
Every last drop of your blood runs cold; (you) stale cadaver
When did your heart last beat (you) whitewashed corpses?
Your pulse has faded - your face so pale (you) stale cadaver
If this is oppression, your heart should be beating
If you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding
If this really hurts you, I should find you weeping
I've only just met you yet, I find that your comatose conviction means nothing to me
Choke on your glory
I won't let you suffocate what now lives
Art is the depth of our essence, it cannot be void of truth
The truth of your expression has withered - your wick has become cold
You cannot buy what's real
You cannot buy the truth