Inside the ever spinning mouse-wheel
the greyning sky remains a wall.
I play the role of a hand-crafted toy,
quiet scissors cut my form.
Waiting always seems a distant drag,
nothing paving nothing's street with stones.
Solitude was never my demand,
what becomes of this remains unknown.
Sleeping well in... turning my believes over and over in my head.
Silent screaming, rejecting taste of pain,
saving the ever mourning change.
Raging, mumbling, the mouse-wheel turns slow.
A brick is missing in the wall.
Shades of color flickering the toy,
seeking dry land in my leaking scull.