morning is never free
as the crows call
and the sun begins to burn
the tips of wooden giants
what are we
but noise
in a quiet world

driven to the brink of insanity
by the threat of obsolescence
and atmospheres of misunderstanding
we are waiting
confused and put on hold
in preparation for
the cliche of cosmic revelation
that never manifests
the circle of life is
warped and turns at odd angles

what do we say
when none of this matters
do you still feel the pull
of something greater
always to the stars you look
the triumph of destiny
is held within the defeat of the self
fight it

i hate repeating the line
i should’ve gotten outta bed earlier

and who ages better
the artist or the wage slave
the tools of the trade
will only get you so far
and after all these years
the rhythm still eludes me

limbo is the word of the day

looking for roles
and driven by instinct
thoughts are not actions
battling the ego
surviving and stumbling
through the background
and looking for a way out

the world may be without end
but humanity is
loosely locked
in the lunacy of legality
a perpetual end
unto itself


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