Clocks hanging on walls
Slip through fingers like fine hair.
What their faces say is lost.

Empty, cluttered rooms
Minds devoid of thought.
History has a tendency to repeat itself.
I'm different enough.
Yet in many ways I'm the same.

Time never changes, represented by the same numbers over and over.
An avatar for death.
Just simple numbers,
And so it gets lost.
Misunderstood, misused, misplaced.
The drive comes from fear
Creates illusions that dance with mistakes.

What could ever be right?
Empty, cluttered rooms, with clocks on the walls.
It's the same time
Is it the same place?