Mar 16, 2007 23:06
Time marches on, on top of my head.
And it's marching on a flatbed car of a train that's so loud my ears bleed.
The blood isn't red, it's clear like water.
But it stains my shirt just the same.
The drops drip down to the ticking of a clock.
The ticking becomes louder until I can't hear the train anymore.
Or maybe the blood has just clogged up my ears.
See, there's the questions again. There's the confusion, it's always there.
Just like time and it's damned ticking clocks.
I see the confusion, hear the clocks, and feel the blood.
They're like a wrong number that just won't stop calling back and asking for Frank.
"Well at least the phone isn't ringing" I think. Or did I say it?
I still can't hear, my shirt is soaked and it's freezing.
The train is still rushing by so the wind must be howling.
They say time goes in circles, and so must this train.
Because it never stops, just like the ticking of the clocks.