Withering Branches

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 afflictions

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 are withering branches, we are sick and dying vines.

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