The annual promise of winter's cold, of Atlantic's...
Speaks more now, seems less then...

They wait for then, and in the end
The lead machines will eat the men...

Everlasting time eating up a meal
Decorated brain-men, fated to die...

Here I rest in piece
The pieces of me...

Broken bones bred this
Broken home...

In a dream
She wears a flowered skirt (she always does...

Mud of blood and earth
Beneath these feet...

I can see your thousand lives
Atoned within the skies...

Hold your breath
Too wary, too cold...

These people are plastic
Their eyes without names shine paper or air...

Opening doors
Closing lives...

Shadows fringe on my paper
Two worldly spectrums combine...