On Word 





The world is a factory, full of machines
Each replaced by a newer generation
I'm a robot, metal shell full of clockwork
But really I am a breath, dying inside

And as the gears continue to turn onward
An intricate jigsaw of moving parts
The clockwork ticks and time fades away
And I'm nothing more then a slipping echo

Smoke floats high from the tall chimneys
It captures my imagination, a dreamer myself
One 'man's' trash can be a real man's treasure
All I have are these dreams, these dying hopes

I'm nothing more then a waking scream, weak
When I'm gone I'll be replaced by a new model
A memory lapse, scattered with the fated sands
I'll shift along with all the other broken pieces

Of this tired universe