So Much Camo

We can't see where we stand through a lens so cracked
Folly holds us in the vice that distorts this vision
Of a life we hunt but can't find
Deep wells. Black soil. Can't console

Carved and culled we sigh over a perceived decline
Waters once warm and contented now feel tepid

Steam and moldable resources expensed
To temper any notion that fault is ours alone
Distorted visions of a life that we hunt but can't find
We'll stumble in hindsight if we even see it

Ignore all that we had

Feather the blades before we lose sight of shore
Feather the blades before we lose sight of shore
Feather the blades before we lose all sight and aim

Knuckles white and sore, adrift in vain
We can't complain when blame for the churn and the roil
Of the waters is ours alone to bear