I can hear the traffic on the highway,
Like an undulating sea,
Like the hiss of time,
The mournful cry of creatures in chains,
The hiss of stone over sand,
Slaves building the pyramids.
I suppose I don’t really know
If their building something that substantial
Or if planed obsolesces has become universal
And everything is breaking down on schedule?
Maybe that’s why I can’t figure out
What the worlds coming to,
Or how to be who I am,
Maybe I’m just getting too old
And it’s my turn now?
But then again,
Maybe its I haven’t had my coffee yet?
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