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Minutemen
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Plight
His face is young
His hands are old
The past is empty
Blind and cold
All the sweat
On his back
Grabs the dirt
It stains his shirt
Push all day
He rests at night
Do some hobbies
Drink to forget
A ton of sand at my feet
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Each a speck in a space
All collecting in a mass
Pressure changing its shape
Its direction, its purpose
As the sea tears it away from the land
More is pushed back
Each different
Each separate
All has changed and nothing has changed
When the momentum stops, the machine will die
For some reason we're not alone
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