We search for solutions, far and wide
Searching with eyes that have been blind
Feel with your metaphorical fingers, please
For nothing you will do (or become) will be enough

Not of fight or in flock of sheep
But of the questions buried deep
Troubled in a dark, dark sleep
You will find no answers here

The mind is a trick
A petty little thing that is thought to have some wit
Pity the pretty, for they have lost their souls
A shallow expense that cannot be paid off

But if that were true, then appearances would deceive
The thieves,
Common folk who would die to try
All my words are lies

God has no trouble, failing the test
Beating the rich of knowledge
For if you know it all
You will never rest

If that is all you live in
Nothing left
With Death in, He crept
You will find no answers here

Your mask belittles the truth that hides in your eyes