1, 2, 3, 4

Suffocated in the routines of life and time and time and life,
The same cogwheels turning over and over, again and again,
All the same, all the same, all the time, every time.
The air is thick around this path, so traveled, so breathed,
By the same and the same, this one or that,
It doesn’t matter which, it’s all been done and redone,

Written, and re-written, past lives and past times analogous,
Present lives and present times gone inanimate in our eyes,
Drying the ink in our pens, sketching the same curves again,
And again, the ink bleeds out in the same pattern,
Shapes repeated on paper, undifferentiated from the others,
Colorless in tone, overdone over time, years and centuries old.

Colorless in tone, overdone over time, years and centuries old.
Shapes repeated on paper, undifferentiated from the others,
And again, the ink bleeds out in the same pattern,
Drying the ink in our pens, sketching the same curves again,
Present lives and present times gone inanimate in our eyes,
Written, and re-written, past lives and past times analogous,

It doesn’t matter which, it’s all been done and redone,
By the same and the same, this one or that,
The air is thick around this path, so traveled, so breathed,
All the same, all the same, all the time, every time.
The same cogwheels turning over and over, again and again,
Suffocated in the routines of life and time and time and life,

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