In the cradle of the ancient dust Plato carved the stone Said the marrow in your infant frame Was a map already known But Locke, he swept the altar clean A slate of frozen white Waiting for the world to bleed Its ink into the night Am I the ghost of bloody lines Or the clay beneath the rain? A daughter of the sequence Or a product of the pain? Oh, the accident of birth Is a shadow on the floor I am the mirror reflecting The ghosts who came before The nature is the iron The nurture is the rust We’re building cathedrals Out of inherited dust But I am the hand on the chisel now I am the lock and the key Breaking the mold of the bloodline To see what is left of me. Genetics in the dark A whisper through the years The hunger of my mother Is the flavour of my tears I watch the "dick-head" drivers And I hear my father’s tongue Tasting the bitter vintage Of the songs that they have sung They installed the layers deep The rules I didn't choose A complex web of values Designed for me to lose. And Seneca, he warned me Of the acid in the jar It eats the vessel from within And leaves a jagged scar I’ve been an animal in a cage Venting at the ghost Burning down the wooden house While playing as the host But the slate is not so blank And the blood is not so blind I’m digging through the psyche For the things I need to find. Destiny isn't a shadow... It’s a choice in the dark. I am the vessel (Not the acid.) I am the choice (Not the spark.) The accident is over. The architect is here. If the world is harsh and unjust I will wear a crown of thorns But if I choose a different sky A different soul is born I’m peeling back the opinions The decisions and the rules The surface-level arrogance Of well-intentioned fools I’ll stop the ritual of rage I’ll drop the heavy mask To think about the thinking Is the only holy task. Destiny isn't a shadow... It’s a choice in the dark. I am the vessel (Not the acid.) I am the choice (Not the spark.)
