Boethius wheel, rise the spokes, feel the grain beneath your hopes, but know there is a pull beneath your feet calling you out on your schemes. Mutable patterns fade, while I reluctantly remain the same. Watch the wheel rolling by, will I rise the spokes in a due time?
But I don't care about anyone or anything. I'm a pioneer of apathy. I had a carelessness that kept me in the weeds, because it means nothing, pushing through, to carry on, to persevere, when that feeling fades you.
Stuck beyond disbelief. They'll shut you down before you speak to keep you dull, to keep you weak, just another gear in their machine. But you can't sleep, you can't feel, soon you will begin to skip your meals. As we're all leaves dragged by the wheel. As you rise someone's dragged underneath.
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