I sit here in the water, my hands are pruning now
My body lingers rotting, as I look for salvation, but how?

There seems to be no path forward, no where for truth to flow
There is only swamp land, the stench and suffering shall grow

(On the point of hanging virtue, on the point of what was lost
On the point of trembling figures, on the point of what it cost
On the heart of lifeless bodies and you)

Every time you take a hint
At the points that lay spread out for you