The great truth is there isn't one 
And it only gets worse since that conclusion 
The irony of being an extension to nothing 
And the force of inertia is now a vital factor 

And there is despair underneath each and every action 
Each and every attempt to pierce the armour of numbness 
Burning bridges becomes a habit to support 
And the front line expands like there's no tomorrow 

I envy the maggots 
Their stuff at least sticks together 
Better than laudations of misinformed seers 
And those are lengthy annals of shame that we work with 

It's like dumping dead meat at the brink of Styx 
With a barge that we made of what was left of Yggdrasil 
After veterans of spiritual revolts were done with their armchairs 
And I don't even remember which brink is which 

The odour of sanctity is just refined stench of existence 
Shining pearl of Augeas' crown pales in comparison 

And there is despair underneath each and every action 
Each and every attempt to pierce the armour of numbness 
Burning bridges becomes a habit to support 
And the front line expands like there's no tomorrow 

The grotesque eagles of misfortune, well fed on Thanatos, sit still 
It's the dignity of scavengers at the ever growing garbage dump of life 

There is something about the rigid posture of a proper, authentic blind 
As if extended arms reached to pass his blindness onto others