Road trip the drains
Where the Dads and Dogs are *******
On bodies and memories
In the empty wells that you're fishing

Number station soviet
With all the frequencies hissing
The noise of trains and traffic
Near where the children go missing

In daylight and dreams
All my flowers becomes wreaths
And all the lonely creatures
Mutilate my counted sheep

In the corner of the cabin
She has flowers in her teeth
Her soft and glowing voice
Beats me to death when I can't sleep

Am I just a wheel?
Consuming meals?
A speck in blue sea?
Bound by what I see?
Life amongst trees?
Breathing means free?

Am I my beliefs?
The truth I seek?
Flag of a country?
Defined by currency?
A liability?
Part of society?

Am I what you see?
The way you judge me?
The values you pick?
First impressions stick?
Norm defined by you?
Do I dare to be rude?

No...

I am who I choose.
I fill my own shoes.
I win when I lose.
I create my own views.
I see black beyond blue.
I pick me over you.

Who are we?
I am me.
Who are we?
Depends on you.

There is a mark on your cheek.
A token of something that used to be.

A shadowed corner of a smile,
Of a giddy mood and conspiracy.

A memory of lick and press and yet to be
And bunch of butterflies. But yet a memory.