Why are we still so undefined?
If there is a love so reckless
Why are we still so restless?
If we are made on purpose
Why is it that 'neath the surface
There's only empty space?
We're just a pretty face
Masking simmered hate
Hiding our disheveled state
Beneath precocious garb.
Is this really all we are?
Is forever really just a vast
Wasteland? Do we really pass
Into the void, gone as a gasp?
Made from clay, or ash to ash?
Who do we think we are?
Or are we truly who we think?
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