There was a rhythm to it, cracks up once proud skyscrapers
Grass growing on the long stretches we used to call highway
Dreams rusted, and moved to the side of our paths
Safer to travel by night, and sleep by day

She came across the broken, lost, and once loud spoken
now just content thinking they see their reflections in the fire
the victims, the heathens, the just happy breathing
babies teething on the bones of the early retired

There was a rhythm to it, the cadence of chaos
The ones who betrayed us would be welcome now
because the stretches between connection seem to be growing
"It would be nice," she thought to herself, "just to see a familiar face"

She feels the greater sense of urgency, without the full understanding of her place,
and the challenges she'll be forced to meet with grace

The savior, the leader, she had a dream
She wondered if the world could comprehend her vision
or what was left of it
The world that is, her vision was still screaming as if it was
just given life, and couldn't take the sensory overload

Her behavior was erratic, or so it would seem
She had the kind of power that could make you listen
but they can't hear her
So they fear how much they want to meet her expectations but
She gives them just enough, to keep them in a productive mode

She's traveled cross the deserts, brought peace of mind to all the lepers
who were sacrificed for leverage, crushed the skulls of all the devils
because their minds needed opening, and what have you
There was a rhythm to it. Banging on the rim of a punctured snare with a
look that says, "I'm 'bout to fucking slap you!"

ooooooooo

She was rapping round a burning oil drum.
When the world turned, and the people had no one to follow
She couldn't have predicted the outcome
But they new she meant it when she said, "There is no tomorrow.
This is not fuel for sorrow. All the time we have now is borrowed"

Many times she thought she could run away,
she would tuck her fear and gun away, face under the blanket
trying to deprive herself of enough oxygen to reach r.e.m. sleep

with her responsibility done away
her emotions flow like Faye Dunaway, Angela Basset deep, with a range
comparable to Meryl Streep

she sits in front of her vanity in her Victorian estate
worrying about the overall effect of her hair and make up
and if her shoes fully complement her hand bag, or if it's a fashion mistake

her world shakes at the thought of what her girlfriends might say
if she shows up in a ensemble that's out of season
but then she starts to forget the reason all this matters
the illusion shatters, as she awakens to the smell of broken blatters
and the sight of the last cock roaches as they scatter

And realizes there's important decisions to be made, missions to be completed,
and still more and more dues to be paid

There was a rhythm to it, awake again recharged for the slaughter
daughter of the armada, the hardest part of here own survival the thought
of her heart growing any harder, trying not to become a product of the
resentment the scenario's brought her, knowing she still has to go much farther

to begin to make a dent in the sense of death that's been set in the minds of all men. Seen friends come and go time and again
But she has no pity left to be lent, only compassion
for those praying to keep their kin as close as they can
As she makes the hardest choices she still chooses to understand
As she gives only what they need, she still tries to meet the demand
On the mountain top preaching to what's left of the crowd
pleading to those still listening to never stop reaching

holding on to the thought that love can be taught
to the lonely, abandoned, depressed, deprived, distraught
has bought us the very little time we've got