cold steel womb. a distorted view. 
deafening hum that wont be subdued.
We've found our being within the churning, and the gears that are turning, but to what end?

This is not what I'm meant for, this is not what I am.
cog, a spoke in the machinery of men
that never takes us to where we haven't been.

Is it too late to take this all back?
If I plant my feet upon this trail without a reason or destination,
then this ship has sunk before it sailed.

An endless churning roar, a labyrinth of steel and ore.
Our blood [bad word] the oil, a meaningless, purposeless toil.

You are all mindless sheep, 
just a piece of the machine.
Keep fueling your hopeless dreams,
they will never mean a thing.

Detach: can we pull these wires from our veins?
Divide our flesh, our blood, our names.
In the face of the machine I see my reflection stand and turn, as I walk.
I'm [bad word] back.