Lines
Sound of the creation
A pale voice cries
Big trick’s comin’, food for the dead
Wild, angry lie
New creator pounds in
More distant lights
Beams shine through the eyes of the dead
Big trick still drives
Lost imagination
The mirror cries
The search for a sight of a trick
Not easy try
Old things are coming
In new disguise
Creators are trying to pick
The sweetest line
Just poor imitation
Swift move carries thoughts to the head
For deeper sedation
They fall from the edge in the air
Lines of real are fading
False perceptions rise
Painting pictures that some
Fallen memory lies
Mute sign of a falling
Flat crater lies
It’s simple and blank for the dead
They can’t see heights
Floating catatonia
Subhuman lines
While circles of smartest men
Repeat their lies
Just poor imitation
Swift move carries thoughts to the head
For deeper sedation
They fall from the edge in the air
Lines of real are fading
False perceptions rise
Painting pictures that some
Fallen memory lies |
