People move about, controlled by clocks.
There I see a girl with green hair,
Here sits a man, no home, no care.
Quiet now, can't hear my thoughts,
Find myself surrounded again by shallow hearts.
My box is filled of empty faces,
Pushed and pulled between great places.
This life is hard, lonely thoughts I keep,
Any soul, even stone would weep.
My box this box, this box is a car,
On great wheels I've travelled far.
Two are four, four become eight,
Packed in tight, confused with eyes blank like bait.
Hundreds sit, none I know.
At some point we all must go.
To the next box with an open door,
This life is empty, nothing more.
-kymo-
