The twisted fingers of reality 
My perception is warped and bent

Wandering the empty Sunday streets

Can't afford the emotional rent

My phone rings in my pocket

Someone I just used to know

I haven't heard their voice in years 

Yet they simply refuse to go

I sit at the window

Th coffee is getting cold

The children are laughing outside

And I'm getting old 

I thought I had time to write 

But now I'm simply middle age

I don't want to read anymore

Just turn the fucking page 

There's a bird on the wire 

It too will simply fly away

I'll fill my empire with dust 

And soon too I'll decay