Travel to the city, when we’re laying wide awake

I’m lacking patron saints

Making my landscapes grey

Twisting, twirling. Everything lacks shapes

It’s a trip I tell you

It’s a trip inside my brain


And then I’m laying awake

Thinking of the rapes and the tapes

Running on the television

From all those miles away

Seek a Justice, fair and plain


Take me to the city

the city of motion

where the relics dance with lubricated gears

Their rusty limbs moving fast, with maintained fears


Bound to a world of fog and dust

Charcoaled lungs unsustaining their locomotion

As they limp througth the crumbled and oily streets

Buildings, rise and fall, as their infrastructure painfully exists


Lococity motion

Where high society seeks devotion

Humanoid gods devoid of all the pains and aches

Rewards are high and stakes are low


Perfectly oiled and magnificent metalloid limbs

Gears humm with the gift of life

The markets bountiful with smells, unheard of beyond the line

Trains unrushed by the lack of resources,

Their passengers remain undisturbed


While the world outside rusts away

Nothing lasts forever, forever would be too hard

We sink into our soft pillow

A small trip,

to Rythmocity.




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