Forced cogs tinkered to
We manufactured our weariness, you and I
Cut from the same cloth evenly

Burst seams on our paper-slim Bedouin souls
Footpaths crossed by happenstance
But it was called a different name

Dampness from corners of eyes torn
From mediocrity to mediocrity
We hung ourselves from pendulums
We aged heavy as boulders do
And the voice of our clock drowned hours into static
Like the half-assed shoves of breath
That carried our wishes downwind in the summer

Our clock was a mirror then
With all those spinning parts
I only saw my own arms moving
Saw them heaving so
A mechanical Atlas, bearing upward the load
Salvation gained by loosening grip on it all

These haunts, these woes resurface
These selves of mine so cleverly buried
But never very deep

Only within the cloud of our story
And all the pretty little words that comprise it
And whichever inflection chosen
One voice at a time
Like painting with a single color