A barren rock, long vacant of life.
The sun swells and fills the skyline.
The death of its state, an old prophecy's wake.
A God later studied, succumbed just as we have to time.
Born of a dead star's wake or contrived by a deity?
With such splendorous surroundings demeaned by a concept, conceived of a rapturous reprieve from the threat of Helios.
Cast light on the damned - Apollo's chore.
The inevitable arrow appointed by the second law.
Born of a dead stars wake,
All life was a product of right time and right place.
Foundations made in volcanic flame.
We swam, crawled and bimbled through billions of years of change.
It's a complex theory that just doesn't have the answer and an eternity to burn if you're wrong.
How can this place be saved if we don't know how to behave?
And science won't help anyone belong...
An all seeing, all knowing omnipotent sire.
If we rose from ash then you won't mind returning to the fire.
A patriarchal suppression that's not asking the right questions
and an unspent life if you're wrong.
To be born into debt to a king you've never met is a concept conceived of a rapturous reprieve from the threat of death.