Is This Thing On?

I'm not sure this thing is working,
I'm not even sure if this thing is on,
To have the ambitions of a king,
Can turn you into such a pawn,
Seems every answer ends a victim to its question,
And so the self the victim of its self-expression.
I see that bomb behind your back,
You see my train leaving the track,
The only real thing left to do,
You save me I save you.
Skin myself alive to flesh out these words,
duce the sky to a bunch of flightless birds,
These sighs could revive the sorrows' of the dead,
The bow of these heart-strings make a fiddle of my head,
You have to really want something in order not to need it,
Have to really milk it in order not to bleed it.
I hear the ring of your hollow lies,
You see the hunger in my empty eyes,
The only right thing left to do,
You save me I save you.
All these wounded details,
Absorbed in the healing whole,
The actor a mere scripted agent,
Of the demons of control,
Now in the wastelands of the star of my order,
Forced to my knees for the mercy of this border.
The contingent build of this landscape,
Is sculpting this bulk to a new shape,
Where one can't survive; only two,
You save me I save you.