Millions of sense, on which the country runs,
Thrown mindlessly into the register,
As meaningless as the blank robot faces
Making their routine stop

They feed their trained starving mouths
Filled and spilled with empty substance
Chemicals mixed to send shock to
Molded wired brains

Hm, black suit today.. It reeks of death
Black suits and briefcases stinking up
The stale space between the four walls,
That lock them in tighter than their own minds,
But not strong enough to mask the stale burnt beans

Mask, masked faces, painted smiles,
tired, tired eyes
Leave
Their pockets that much emptier.

Truth is-
Truth is a lie
For I am trapped in a reality
Of one not conditioned for my kind
Perception is key to the unlocked universe
But what if I'm locked out of the world in which I was born?
I don't speak their language or get their jokes,
But since we are being honest, I don't care
All the pretty images, no thought evoked
In my own dimension, no one stares.

Compose our story on cold wood we clutch,
let fingers play that familiar tune.
The keys, they trickle as light as your touch
on my hips, soft, then hear that tension boom.

A trace is broken as passion crashes,
consonance only our bodies can create
like something seen in light of matches.
The strings come to life, a scene to narrate.

Reflection dim in that old baby grand
the echoed sound and crash reoccured,
two lovers intertwine, soul in his hand.
The sweetest melody they’ve ever heard.

And although keys may grow out of tune and crack,
those hands forever keep me crawling back.