They come with there painted faces.
never forgetting a line
They're stuck in tight places.
but say that its all fine.
More cubes of nothing-ness to construct.
hurry, hurry, times running out.

Am I visiting your world or you mine?
Can you possibly be of the divine?
Back I go into you or you into me?
Wait... this time am I free?
I feel the rolling, pushing and peeling away.

I asked and they gave
I hated them for it
but given without me asking
I hate them, when they expect
the flower comes to give
no words spoken
the beauty flows in
no longer broken

If a train falls of its tracks
is it more free or less?
nothing left to distract
just watching the rest,
perform their routines,
their daily song and dance
all the same scenes