We can't see where we stand through a lens so cracked Folly holds us in the vice that distorts this vision Of a life we hunt but can't find Deep wells. Black soil. Can't console Carved and culled we sigh over a perceived decline Waters once warm and contented now feel tepid Steam and moldable resources expensed To temper any notion that fault is ours alone Distorted visions of a life that we hunt but can't find We'll stumble in hindsight if we even see it Ignore all that we had Feather the blades before we lose sight of shore Feather the blades before we lose sight of shore Feather the blades before we lose all sight and aim Knuckles white and sore, adrift in vain We can't complain when blame for the churn and the roil Of the waters is ours alone to bear