Proletarian

The Life Of Alcoholics

Hell is their home
Where Heaven is merely an illusion
Waiting to become a reality.
Traveled miles only to discover that they've walked backwards.
Can't see the light, but they know it's there.
Some-where.
Walking in a place where they don't have a shadow,
A place where it's only they who can hear the screams.
Where Demons feast, & Angels wings are cut.

Proletarians, cutting air for the breath.
Bread acquired in darkness where flames are luxurious.
Where wires snap.
Air compressed to explosions of energy.
Where their soul's port opens to Hell
And they're unwillingly being pushed through.
Where only the end determent's their beginning.

Proletarians, waking for the volume,
In taking percentage to stop the clock.
Not realizing the clock's counters has elapsed faster than anticipated.
Their consumption of the transparent
Is breaking them down slowly.
Waking up in pain,
Yet continuing on the same path.
Death awaits around the corner
Ready to receive another lost soul.