A third eye would be nice if there was anything to see.
Some money and power would be great if it meant anything to me.
But all I look into these days is how the people I miss
aren’t even people anymore but blurred sets of noises and sounds,
gone into their own lives forever,
and I’m losing my mind because I swear that door was closed,
I’m telling you I heard a voice,
and it said something once,
when I was a child, running in the sprinkler,
but now I can’t hear it, not even the echos.
It breaths over the world,
chewing up my father’s father’s gold
and turning it into fuel.
We are all one machine, breeding, growing,
working to create an electrical pulse
built on electrical pulse,
as one planet out of billions
is turned on, one turn on at a time.