Letters From The Colony
terminus
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Grinding away without reprieve
Reason is lost to apathy
Rusted cogs of the machinery
Fueled by our dreams of anarchy
Visions they are ephemeral
Voices too weak to end it all
Hands are turning this day is old
Waiting for what tomorrow holds
Clockwork
With nothing moving forward
We find comfort in circles
I am oil
I am the fire
Incandescence
I am the ocean
I am the lungs
Effervescence
I am clockwork
I am the final hour
Grinding away without reprieve
Until the hours interweave
Counting down to terminus
There is nothing here for us