Weaving compassion for an old machine that's lost its sense of right or wrong and the fires burning at your gears beneath the silkened skin that's wearing thin from the fingerprints that's left on your chest you've got that perfect figure you can't buy our attention our mistakes become true life in your reflection we kill ourselves again another dollars earned
I guess we have the upper hand lets hear it for the final victor the poisoning the cloth is starch and beating at the temples an out of body experience would suffice as a holiday the summer has grown short and cold slowly breeding bitter hearts as the summer grows short holding breath for the present time has given us another chance for failure we watch as another life ends with grief and desire for cutlery the fowl has attained a ballance between man and a pair of broken lungs hold on for antoher yesteryear before it comes today left entangled by the strings that kept me satisfied
I guess its not just what I felt was normal weaving a compassion for an old machine that's lost its sense of right or wrong and the fires burning at your gears now the heart has abandoned its purpose don't forget your soul on the way out you've paid in grief but the bulk of the matter is you've paid in your own blood having no reason or function to stay afloat we've fallen apart with tragedy and malevolence but the dirt and violence has sunk under your nails consume your own eyes to the point where you can only see grey and the elegance becomes the obsolete the cloth is starch and beating at the temples
I guess we got the upper hand the summers grown so short and cold and its due to my own intuitions we've cut our weight in words and focus on the worthless waiting for signs to carry on