We  are  the images on  cold  grey  walls,
clinging  to  that  which  is  long  yet  past.
Meaningless, fruitless  and  hopeless  we  are,
pitiful  shadows  forever  to  last .

Time  exists  where  nothing  else  can …
what  has  become  of  a  race  called  man?
Among  the  ruins  the  wind  will  ever  mourn
and  we  are  the  shadows  so  forlorn.

My mind gets trapped
in darkened bands,
hearing deep songs
by the traveling man.

Sad not fear,
plays it slow,
turning it back,
hearing the scold

Reversing the round,
demons release,
off with the head,
take it from me

Subliminally tripped,
it goes back around,
please turn it up,
Hearing no sound.