The Riddle of Men and Monsters

They say the world’s divided, but the lines are drawn so thin, A saint to one’s a sinner, and a ruler’s just a king. In towers built on stories, they preach their solemn truths, But time will strip their sermons, exposing what’s in view. But who decides what’s holy? Who writes the book of law? The righteous claim their glory— What hides behind their cause? So tell me who’s the monster, and who’s the hand of grace? Is it the mask they’re wearing, or the soul they can’t erase? For every hymn of mercy, there’s a war cry on the wind, The riddle of men and monsters—it begins, it begins. I’ve seen the broken towers, where the banners once were raised, They preached of liberation, but enslaved us just the same. The puppeteer’s no saviour; the strings are pulled with greed, And every prayer they whisper hides the knife behind their plea. Oh, who can draw the border, between the saint and beast? Their altars shine with riches— But who paid for the feast? So tell me who’s the monster, and who’s the hand of grace? Is it the mask they’re wearing, or the soul they can’t erase? For every hymn of mercy, there’s a war cry on the wind, The riddle of men and monsters—it begins, it begins. The hands that hold the balance will never hold it still, The weight shifts with the choices shaped by power, shaped by will. What justice can we conjure when the scales refuse to stand? The answers we’ve been chasing keep slipping through our hands. But even in the chaos, there’s a question left to sing— Who are we in this moment, and what will tomorrow bring? So tell me who’s the monster, and who’s the hand of grace? Is it the mask they’re wearing, or the heart they can’t replace? For every hymn of virtue, there’s a call that splits the wind, The riddle of men and monsters—it begins, it begins.