Each step gobbles another piece of Earth,
Each minute burns everything else before it,
Each thought imprisons all before it.
Meandering through a road,
The simmering tar and the fraudulent mirages,
The open fields guarded by wild scrubs,
The path keeps moving.
In a city of brittle concrete,
Syndicate sodium vapours and gnarled garbage,
The knots of hierarchy and trampoline of money,
Arrest the windows from beating freely.
In the jungle of tomorrow,
Children walk with white shoes and blue ties,
Bound to the thick books and fraught with
Dreamless fright of others' dreams.
In the wicker baskets,
Lie the discarded penchant and providence,
None to carry them, for they exist no more.
In the parks of tomorrow,
The muscles flex not, but a voice hangs over,
Prompting the hive of humans to churn the currency.
In the match box houses,
Blood remains still and cold,
Frozen by the pampering heat
And disgruntled wit.
In the empty beaches,
The waves crash on, forlorn,
No more folklore to paint it turquoise,
None to wash in melancholy of joy.
The rocks stand still,
As the winds move the big hand,
The minutes wither away to the
Chained voices of another yesterday.
Step by step, they move away,
Those who were, are no more.
The sun and moon are not bright,
But caught in a transcending gray.
Each step gobbles another piece of Earth,
Each minute burns everything else before it,
Each thought imprisons all before it.
Meandering through a road,
The simmering tar and the fraudulent mirages,
The open fields guarded by wild scrubs,
The path keeps moving.
In a city of brittle concrete,
Syndicate sodium vapours and gnarled garbage,
The knots of hierarchy and trampoline of money,
Arrest the windows from beating freely.
In the jungle of tomorrow,
Children walk with white shoes and blue ties,
Bound to the thick books and fraught with
Dreamless fright of others' dreams.
In the wicker baskets,
Lie the discarded penchant and providence,
None to carry them, for they exist no more.
In the parks of tomorrow,
The muscles flex not, but a voice hangs over,
Prompting the hive of humans to churn the currency.
In the match box houses,
Blood remains still and cold,
Frozen by the pampering heat
And disgruntled wit.
In the empty beaches,
The waves crash on, forlorn,
No more folklore to paint it turquoise,
None to wash in melancholy of joy.
The rocks stand still,
As the winds move the big hand,
The minutes wither away to the
Chained voices of another yesterday.
Step by step, they move away,
Those who were, are no more.
The sun and moon are not bright,
But caught in a transcending gray.
Each step gobbles another piece of Earth,
Each minute burns everything else before it,
Each thought imprisons all before it.
But all you need to do is let go.
The Light Shines The Brightest
