Reach to my hand, and pull back my soul.
You\'ll feel the golden covered coal, but that\'s just the fuel.
What\'s inside is not alive, a machine running on said fuel.
Can you do me a favor, one of higher stature? Change my oil, and add some coal.
So I may trudge onward, Slowly though.
Because of every gear, Grinding one another.
Sparks fly from their pursuit, their goal is purpose.
But who am I to say were different, Just cause I\'m the last of an age long gone, Where steam ruled the will of man, and with me it still does.
that\'s why the gears are sick of the machine.
only a metal shell, is where I lay now.
But I\'m still here, for those who wind the crank.
As the soul of the past revive, the oil drops from the holes of time.
Creaking is the noise of startled brass, as I\'m being pulled from jail.
The cage in the machines belly, above the fire, the fire of all regrets.
A fire who\'s fumes release bellows of my dread, But that was my home.
It\'s too small for who I am now, Free from the cogs.
Because you saw something, in the steam machine.