Smoothe and make as was
Smell come in on the train
Then dunk in sacrone
Left at trow's ennui

All hours anchor
To the aching bone
Programmed without form
Programmed without sound

Austere known your pen
Throats inside of glass
Hanging next to me
Eyes all disappear

Gloss tones speak in turn
Chew in such a rush
Lands strength a rolling home
Lie doesn't hold mass

I found myself awake and walking
The two of you arrive
Backs turned to the spitting
But they have not a dream

No one was there
Look towards the face
Becoming very clear