We ask questions of our lives,
Our fruitless un-infinity.

Art is dead, and it has been for a while.

Our Legacies are fallen, our days are decayed 
We run from nothing and the night is our aid.

Our Social Suicide has had many Catalysts,
But just once I'd like to truly be free,

That is a place however, we cannot go
And those are people we cannot be.

Our epidemic of depression and our "free" system of tyranny, 
Where anyone can be a ruler, just not the people we need,

for the rich have the power,
and the messenger is always dead before he gets here.
Art is dead, and has died, and will be dead forever,

And the harbinger of death calls.

It flies and we all come to hear, but the answers we seek are the same as before,

Quoth the raven; Nevermore

And we run forever.

We all run from something,
and our life has no meaning.

And only then do we remember the raven's Nevermore

The dead had to show us beauty,
and even then we didn't heed them,

The only beauty we see is in what we create,
Our deaths have been called, and though we do quite well, 
We are all losing hope; Our minds have gone past hell.

Our mass suicide and the Death of Art affected us more than they can say,
and we get pushed too far, and death will come today.

You will not be remembered because now everything has to be fair,
We have damned the creation of heroes and now we are scared.

The Rose of death greets us, with its devilish thorns, and again,

Quoth the Raven; Nevermore

We are guided by lust and that is a scare,
Do our minds even know love anymore?

But no, It kills us and that is the best way. The only way.
We create that which destroys us, and again and without fail,

Quoth the Raven;

Nevermore