The soul is gone from our dream all too soon, and I have laid my hands on every goal
So many dead, you would have thought we'd learn by now that the pinnacle is lower than all
Fiction is a lie that media presents, a silver cloud of objects
All attained, grasping hands pass on through because there's nothing there

She is strong and moves along, the television granite. The master will not answer now, just a mirage
Every time we try we fail. Illusion has pitfalled the path, sapping everything away, nothing will filter back
All our tears fall to the kitchen floor. The linoleum will not absorb
So we slip and slide in the afterbirth of greed, and so we fall to our knees
Crouched as if in worship, your god is empty