cardboard prophecy

We've got communes shaking from an extacy muttering words of a God Almighty and there's an itch beneath our bandages but our hands dare not reach we know not to fight (or think) A tongue moves around through the air we breath while man sits making prophecies of a new day, of an end our children are sure to see And the gray men who used to be so great (at least in the eyes of generations late) say that the rivers dried up for a reason, and there is no sense in trying to fix them so they can sleep at night (a little less uneasy) The hand of motion has no initiative only energy that's never gone nor here and the breath of life exhaled in death is still trapped in a cycle of endless fear.