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Going to a place that I have always known, |
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but by the time I arrive it's already gone. |
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As it always is, but always wasn't; |
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long ago when there was nothing here. |
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Before unnatural disaster had found its origin |
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there was an ocean that made no waves, |
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but hummed along in disdain |
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almost as though it were singing... |
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This sound resounds through the sea where I lay, |
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unable to move my weary frame |
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against such unbearable shaking. |
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I must struggle to I break away |
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from this incredible weight, |
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and escape to a plane that I find sacred. |
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I listen for it where I may, and when I hear it, |
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faintly it says... |
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Somewhere along the line a transition takes place. |
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Wasted away when I awaken from the daze that I've been in, |
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my legs barely carry me high enough to crest the mountain to the sky. |
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From great heights I observe machines that whir, |
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and I know I've heard them before... |
