I can’t picture the little grey dots,
That circle ‘round my blurred vision,
Like some mascot shouting for a team.
I’m abandoned to subjective callings,
I don’t want to believe them,
I just imagine cold nights sweating from fear,
That they’ll come for me,
The little grey dots,
They’re coming for me.
Vision turned blank,
Sparks of truth burry their little lies,
In some closed spring,
Cold and refreshing,
Something I don’t want to believe,
It all swallows me and my broken pride,
And rips me from the inside.
I feel the tempest roaring in some rhythmic tune,
Crying manifestos of buried hues,
The only color I see are the grey spots,
And they’re coming for me,
They don’t want me to be free,
No, they want me to believe,
The little grey lies and half truths,
They can’t see behind the greying hues.