At home they toast with crystal, Laughter fills the hall, Polished shoes and champagne whispers, I barely feel at all. Their words drift like perfume, Through velvet, gold, and lies, I slip away before the laughter dies. Down in my cellar, I’m freer, The air is thick and nearer, Where my old steam machine still breathes for me. I feed it pills of silver flame, Let hours lose their name, And drink my wine in vapor’s reverie. Some days are slow and empty, And some skies never clear. If tomorrow fades completely, Let it fade right here. If something should befall me, Beyond what man can mend, I know where I’ll be waiting for the end. Down in my cellar, I’m lighter, The glow burns dim, but brighter, Where my old steam machine hums endlessly. I feed it sparks of trembling blue, Forget what time can do, And drift through steam, content and quietly. Down in my cellar, I’m smaller, But somehow life feels taller, In the hiss and heart of my machine. The world above keeps turning fast, But I let moments last, And sip my wine inside that silver dream
