May the world see our faces in the light
of the torches we carry home.
I always assumed that I’d be something different
But I’m turning out like you,
A part of the procession.
The next time that you fly, take a look outside
And count our little hives as they glow and whistle by.
And every single line in this pattern we inscribe
Is spreading like disease while we sleep fine.
Though we all come down on the right side
Thunderous outcry does nothing but stall.
We grow for the sake of growing,
And oh god I know what the numbers say.
We’re blessed with the pain of knowing
How our lives affect the plans we lay.
Though our crown is made of smoke
We will die to keep it,
Or at the very least send our sons
To find out just how far these colors run.
We can clear our conscience of anything.
We permit ourselves this apathy.
Oh, and it all comes down to the little things.
We could right the little things.
Do you feel famous yet?
Did you claim it for your tribe?
Have we gone crazy with hunger
And swallowed all that we could find?
It’s no excuse that every other rat
Would do it just as bad if they had the time.
I’m not bothered by the imposition,
I’m just bothered by the state of mind.
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