The smokestacks breathe like spitting out the truth.
White lines disguised as fuel consumed.
Under grayblue skies we are simple machines,
marks matched with greatness but tempting fate.
Lines, Faces, are all drawn in the sand.
Its better not to understand and turn your back on
the city. Wine, it tastes like it did yesterday and
finally you've found a way of turning your back on
everything. Don't ever swing on three right things.
Finding safe escape routs and saying the right things.
The choice you make still affects me.
We cling to this tension just to feel nything,
leaving flesh for the effort we've made.
Time to embrace. time won't erase these guilty looks
from your eyes. There is no disguise good enough to
hide lines that are drawn in the sand.
You've finally found a way.
Don't ever, However. Written down in numbers and measured
in waves add up to a sense of accomplishment.