Focused on the gleam of the razor's edge,
Mind is fixed on the surface just below the ledge,
Chase the clock around in circles
Time moves slow for those, the slaves to the page
They're gonna choke
It's a crutch, but its never enough
A moral crux
They're born to cower in front of those bastards empowered
The illusion of faction is all apart of the farce
Chase the clock around in circles
Or let 'em rot with a cross eternal
A fucking crutch, but it's never enough
Your moral crux
