Wheels turn slow like a grinding sigh, sparks fly up in a smoky sky. Rust and oil paint the hands of time, clockwork hearts beat a metal rhyme. Gears of the world keep turning turning, friction burns but we keep yearning. Grinding fate into something bold, gears of the world never grow old. Chains rattle loud like a serpent’s hiss, bolts and screws in a steel abyss, every cog has a story to tell, in the machine where we rise and fell. Push and pull in a rhythm strange, every piece locked in the chain. Gears of the world keep turning, turning, friction burns but we keep yearning, grinding fate into something bold, gears of the world never grow old. Steam hisses like a dragon’s breath, iron sings in the face of death, we’re the machine, we’re the design, turning forever in the grand design.
