It\'s an odd pattern,
Each and every leaf.
They trace themselves,
In so little effort.
Tightly woven between,
All the nearby trees.
Their wood carved,
By the wild wind.
It makes such a familiar noise.
It\'s an odd pattern,
The wallpaper outdated.
From a year I forgot,
And nobody remembers.
I\'d call for the answers,
But the lines are all cut.
Most doors are locked,
And the floor creaks.
It makes such a familiar noise.
It\'s an odd pattern,
When this desk I sit.
With not a utensil,
To use and write.
A single soul near,
Nay they are missing.
For their song at lunch,
Sounds just like a bell.
It makes such a familiar noise.
It\'s an odd pattern,
Lights on and off again.
A strobe of light colors,
The ride of your life.
A trick of the mind,
An illusion inside.
For joy to find a home,
While old music plays.
It makes such a familiar noise.
It\'s an odd pattern,
In a tunnel so dark.
The brick is cold,
As you make your way.
Use the hand to feel,
And guide the stay.
While you go only further,
The sound of your feet.
It makes such a familiar noise.
It\'s an odd pattern,
Yes a strange cycle.
These places I know,
The places I\'ve been.
Places I\'ll soon discover,
Ones so far away.
Some I shall never see,
Others only a peep.
It makes such a familiar noise.