Ventriloquist (Burn The Sun)

The towers ablaze, it's violent and spreading, boasting and spitting it's sense of hostility. A child shouts from the rooftops but no one will hear it, his tongue is foreign. The priest is, caught sight of the cathedral drowing in flames, from the prostitutes window.

Steeples collapsed and pointing to the embers, cinders of split ends imprinting the people. Here comes the casket on shoulders of profession, sit at the back and pretend to listen.

My ribcage is sore from breathing in and out (I wish I didn't have to think about it). This crawls down my throat as I'm gagged and captive to a bed of lies.

This spine of steel weighs a ton, so what good are you? You push us down into a den of orders, a lion's share of defeated innocence. Fingerprints on the wall to show our existance, (they all look the same) A company policy, it's a trait of equality.

Blackout and awake in a dream, a better reality, a place where we were free! The organ is shrill and it's warming my bones cold.

Pull my insides out and scrape out emotion, hand's through my back and now I'm just dead mass. Move my chapped lips and say what I don't want, move my legs so they get to work on time, extend my arms to shake hands with a man with a tie that he'll use to strangle the weakest of employees, but it looks smart, so I suppose we'll trust you.

Written by Chris Yeoman and David Wigglesworth - 2006