Sunday, February 12, 2012

It's body is the track, It's soul is the train.
Sit, don't fidget, you must refrain.
Eyes open, hearts grow cold as we forget to fight the mold.
Tilt the cart and sparks will fly.
Stop, the masses will reply.
Be as dry as dust blow brush,
and be open to the fires' touch
Try to avoid it's gorgon gaze,
And watch as I set my heart ablaze.