Zealot
Now the wick has burned out
That brings light into life
There's a stepping aside
It incriminate hope
It needs to you hear this
Where fact is opinion
Like a force of god
Like a whimpered injury
Like a tourniquet tight
No defined lines
No cowering envy
Just a whisper of modern enervation
Then the wind blows out
Everything is perfect now
It just lays itself down
Of a fledged sound
Of a hatred kept
Goes in infinitely now
Like a force of god
Like a whimpered injury
Like a tourniquet tight
No defined lines
No cowering envy
Just a whisper of modern enervation
Then the wind blows out
Everything is perfect now
It just lays itself down
Of a fledged sound
Of a hatred kept
Goes in infinitely now