There is no scope There is no lens But what will be scratched by the end There is no flame There is no torch But what can be lit and destroyed And reborn So what is flesh? What is skin, But that which you're imprisoned in? There is no prize, No purse of gold But what will be gambled away when you're old. I unwrapped the trenchant truth And folded away my youth, Now nothing more than change Held onto just in case There are no gods, No sacred ghosts But those who had purchased their posts There is no leaf, No patch of grass But that which is withering fast So what is grace? What is beauty But that which some day will die? For me at least? "Next year is almost here," Is that how you fed your fear? Haven't you grown a bit? Aren't you past that shit? It is a sin It's such a shame That it's so damn easy to be afraid 'Cause you are pure And you are brave, But you were a hell of a mess to create.