Текст: Thrice. The Illusion Of Safety. A Subtle Dagger.

It infiltrates insidious, it feints at love
Betrays our trust in what we've known
Since we were born the truth we've found in all we see

Points to design, still our chests swell
We'll never find true answers from a wishing well

So feed us all another lie to still our thoughts
Appease our pride so we wont have
To chance the way we see we live we love we die

Our lusts precede our blasphemy
Our logic reads like notes from tainted autopsy

Our souls they speak of something more
But we can't look beyond ourselves
We implore empty skies because
Our heats hold room for no one else

We extend our claws to grasp at shadows of the
Ideals we have lost causalities of a subtle dagger
Buried to the hilt in our hearts blood on our hands