act 1:

verse-like a poorly orchestrated masterpiece-
she s mid summer and fairweather
and never say you can fly with just feathers
because you ll never leave the ground.
you say you can put the birds to shame,
but i have yet to see your name written on the sky,
you own nothing but your false sense of pride
so this attempt at flight was a procrastinated suicide
you could ve touched the stars once,
and avoid any attempt at conversation.
you were once celestial,
but now you envy the constellations.
"save andromeda for me"
"is it because your faith relies in astrology?"

act 2:

and isn t it ironic? you hold the title of the stars you wished to save.
well they aren't anymore omniscient,
than your deity in text.
[and you]
america- the great allusion to ancient rome,
and it's inclined to fail.
(seems we've misplaced our throne in the heart of the economy.
[these cities we've built] to instill a false sense of security)
have only enlightened us a realization-
what a poor excuse for babylon
instead of hanging gardens, we're hanging our selves
[I m a prime believer in the faiths scrawled across the mirror
because your skin is just as thick as your failed aesthetics.]
we've all become so vain,
for just that poison in our veins.

epilogue:

would you burn our cities down for a taste of grace?
would you sell those letters in your name?
oh cassiopeia,
will you sell yourself,
to instill a designer form of hell?