The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
With a pen in one hand taking a stand drugged on kerosene.
Eighty-four and five would find us something to believe.
Right or wrong, with dirty hands on wires,
singing songs in dischord choirs.
Screaming in braile, no temptress prize,
could ever yield anything so real.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
Golden soldiers born much older than they'll ever live to be.
Diving into a sea of hands in a long forgotten city.
Here the rain falls ever after,
the strangled vines hang dead in rafters.
The blood rushed to your head induces a laughter, endlessly.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and long gone, but the riot inside moves on.
Can't explain it, it was something to see.
Can't contain something ever real.
Ever real.
Hey.
Can't explain it, it was something to see.
Can't contain something so, ever real.
Ever real.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
The original fire has died and gone, but the riot inside moves on.
