Stand with me.
Children and parents.
Lovers and fallen angels.
Hatred and exalted demons.
The audacity of a dying decree
Bleeding from a City on a Hill:
It told me a parable in the dead of night.
When I didn't stir, when I slept like a baby
And when...I was naive.
I was so naive.
Listen if you can hear!
Observe if you can see!
Stand here with me,
Generation of sheep.
And mourn the death of the family.
We've lost our love.
And we've lost eachother, Great City.
We've poured our blood out for a few seconds of pleasure.
And we've slept at night under blankets of isolation.
When will we wake up and see the mess we've made of ourselves?
As long as dinner tables remain empty,
And technology recieves more eye cantact than our spouses,
And silence fills our rooms where laughter used to be,
We will continue to mourn.
As long as the insanity of an alcoholic,
Searching for control in shards of glass and broken bones,
Is lost because he can't even control himself,
We will continue to mourn.
As long as we feed on our anger like a drug,
And let our compassion dissipate in a vapor of bitterness,
And justice is diluted by our screwed up selfish perspectives,
We will continue to mourn.
As long as the Holy City on that soul barring hill,
With light meant to fill the sky,
Remains snuffed out and hidden,
And God becomes a secret we lock away in our hearts,
We will continue to mourn.
This is the death of the family.