Cement Shoes Inside The Temporal Lobe

Crawling through a broken window
hoping to find an unlocked door
behind the cobwebs in your mind.
Fifty two, forty six, eleven, twenty nine.

The only map is a fading memeory
you cannot seem to find.

Marshmellow floors consume your
thoughts and slowly milk time.

Perception is skewed and
then everything rewinds.

Back at the beginning of madness,
the brains grand design.


Fifty two, forty six, eleven, twenty nine.