Withering branches

But what gods are we? For thousands of years we have been unable to transcend our basic animalistic passions for hate, greed, and violence towards our fellow man. The Greeks envisioned their gods just as humans, imperfect, flawed, violent. Modern philosophy envisions the God of theism as embodying perfection, justice, and mercy. Surely, these are qualities far from our reach. Nietzsche's overman, then, seems to become what it set out to destroy: an otherworldly idea.

Oh what a wide world to conquer, it rests in the palm of our hands.

The lines blur between corruption and where we sit upon our thrones.
And we draw blood as if it's our right to, but is it our right to?

We've been swaying for centuries and we've dug in our roots as we drink up the sea of divinity.
But we can't seem to shed our affliction.

What pitiful deities we make if we can't reach beyond ourselves. Such lowly gods we
create when we only believe in what our hands can touch and our eyes can see.

We've been swaying for centuries and we've dug in our roots as we drink up the sea of divinity.
But we can't seem to shed our affliction.

What pitiful deities we make if we can't reach beyond ourselves. Such lowly gods we
create when we only believe in what our hands can touch and our eyes can see...
...what our eyes can see.

Oh what a wide world to conquer, it falls apart in our hands.

(We are withering branches, we are sick and dying vines.)