Terminus - Letters From The Colony

Grinding away without reprieve

Reason is lost to apathy

Rusted cogs of the machinery

Fueled by our dreams of anarchy

Visions they are ephemeral

Voices too weak to end it all

Hands are turning this day is old

Waiting for what tomorrow holds

Clockwork

With nothing moving forward

We find comfort in circles

I am oil

I am the fire

Incandescence

I am the ocean

I am the lungs

Effervescence

I am clockwork

I am the final hour

Grinding away without reprieve

Until the hours interweave

Counting down to terminus

There is nothing here for us