Ticking three times on axis is the Earth that
hangs on my words as I go unheard and birds
leave me as I breath peace, white fluttering undisturbed
heathens that don’t believe in the melancholy
so obvious to many, its as black as industry
as abused as infantry, as confused as infancy
and I hold hands with fiends in heat ‘cause
the only way to stop the devolution of the soul
is to accept that as a whole we whole lot of human
beings begin to decay as we find a way to commit to
unrehearsed rhymes with adverse times not stopping
to think of all the unfinished lines we drop as we stop
thinking to become mundane, dish-washing souls that
wane away from creativity to accept a lack of passion
that only asks for the occasional rationing of rationale
but we avoid it out of confusion and instead become
less than human
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