What we breathe are remains, the ashes of the means
What we took from our entire lives are the fleeting feelings
The dying dreams, uncertainties but not the tragedies
What we live for isn't worth living for
Did we ever really live for us at all?
We, the survivors, the few who traced the steps back to the shore
We will inherit nothing but our own tormented demons
When everything is gone
We were born for epic endings and yet we'll go out like this.
We are our very own bullet-breaths as we wade on through the smoke
I'd rather want a finish line than to burn in the brightest light
Live from the bleak brink of the horizon to the scorching zenith's height
I want to live through these bleeding days but they're coming back
The ways of old, time-tried and cold, they're coming back