Alternate title: Final Étude des Liberté
In the America I knew you loved me
But that was years ago
Before we saw the future
Before we were wise enough to know
That it had all been an illusion
One that in many prefer to stay
But I could never exist
If we were to continue that way
Some dreams are meant to be broken
Just to shake ourselves awake
Few things can be truly healing:
Surgical wounds; unpacking heartache.
Once this morning fog has lifted
And the world has enough data to go
I’m here to pick up my pieces
Of destruction unintentionally sewn
