Old work horse...
Still pulling the chains,
passing it's own remnants of pains.
Blunt out into sonorous iron-shod steps,
resounding back and forth along ancient tracks...
Old work horse...
Still pulling the load,
the rattle has stopped along the way,
kontinuum claimed the sound of chains...
They won't let go the destined waggon of ways...
Old work horse...
Abandoned by demons and woes...
All but the rotting inside ticking in time...
Permeating the skin and the masks it chases away
all who have left, are leaving and those who won't stay...
Old work horse...
The waggon keeping it's course,
well greased wheels and the load held in steel,
dictating the guiding steps into a mantle of black,
sooty and wide it embraces the days into it's night...
Old work horse...
Quo vadis, plenus memoria?
Written pages many and gray of vitam in provincia.
Whispers blow them away for futureless pages to stay...
Tabula rasa. driving insane is its undefined, white and empty plane...
