There is no peace, there is no love; the only thing that's real
is that which we can quantify and not that which we feel.
Build monuments unto our own to leave our mark on earth
but some day all that which we build will crumble back to dirt.
We'll take until there's nothing left; 'til nothing more remains,
yet, still, we'd take it and for what? It isn't to sustain.
We are no more than sparrows winging wayward to the sun;
no more than tiny atoms come together, firm as one.
There is no peace, no single shred of placid, calm content
unless we feel we've mattered to some bleak, minute extent.
Long after life has left our eyes and blood has left our veins
the worms will eat what's left of us 'til nothing more remains.
Food for worms which feed the birds who scatter out the seeds
that grow the trees who make the air your children need to breathe.
No better, we, than field mice making lives to be destroyed;
no better than the specks of dust which fill this hellish void.
What makes man so entitled: the king of all which is.
Why can't we just be happy? Why can't we just exist?
Exist until we die and when we die then we are dead
and all we've done and all we are dies in our weary heads.