Brake light shards scattered in the brush
Dead seeds, a monument to nothing
Sun-faded headshots, so easy to forget
The aftermath of skidmarks veering to the left

A dormant intention
Chained to the bottom of a sunken spaceship
Drifts endlessly out of reach
As a silent informant gasps for air
Ancestral visions sinking out of frame
"Where do they go?" and "Is it all the same?"

This callous world beats upon my threadbare heart
Should I cut the strings or patch it up?

Cut the strings (Cut the strings)
Patch it up (Patch it up)
All’s well that ends well
But what if ending nevеr comes?