A subtle dagger de Thrice

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 won't have to change the way
we see, we live, we love, we die.
our luts 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 hearts hold room
for no one else.
we extend our claws to grasp at shadows of the ideas we have lost,
casualties of a subtle dagger,
buried to the hild in our heart,
blood on our hands.