Utopia - The Moth Gatherer

The time and gold in our hands

Spectral concepts, illusive and grand

Dead eyes stare at the vertical flood

The bones are soaked and starts to drift

The eyes of the child tells what lies ahead

A spectral light touched the numb

I was there when the current died

An eerie glow on strange beings in a fractured world

Now I stand in darkness

Watching as the worlds collide

I wish that I could return

But I am the sun, the finite mass

And I need to burn