Testo A Well-Intentioned Virus

Anger casts shadows of doubt
Inviting them in has hollowed you out
The purest disgust one can ever feel
It lives in our voice, it guides our eyes
It's forcing us to realize
We're born from the fear, the fear of death

Proven designs crush weakened minds
Exceptions to the rule and anomalies
Stir up violence with silver spoons
Cries of persecution
From the persecutor's tongue
The medium agitates the hive

Frothing hordes of true believers
You are right, yes you are right
You have been chosen to ruin countless heathen lives

Our path of sight through perception is soiled
As our sanity turns spoiled
Commands sent down by light and sound
Imaginary generals lie tired from the war They will become what they abhor
A well-intentioned virus posing as a cure