Seems like the roads stretch out like veins, but there’s no heart.
Nature’s haircut is concrete now, and we played our part.

I’ve lost my taste for modern things. They’re not for me.
I want mundane: a quiet place, where time is free and I can sing.

Climbed from my bed to collect the thoughts that’d fallen from my head,
and you watched me sink, through the carpet, through the basement, and beyond.

And you didn’t blink.