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Into It. Over It.

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Into It. Over It.

No Amount of Sound

Footsteps, they followed mother's death
They followed suit and peeled off the walls

Behind a metal desk inside a modern mausoleum
you have found you calling, calling for fall

No amount of sound could make us fade the way you're fading now
Lost way, current emotional states left folding gold under a florescent light
It's a touch agoraphobic, I suggest a catatonic height but hypochondriac's suggestion weight

I held your hand I drew a line in the sand
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I couldn't bare to think your losing your mind
But when the red flags bolted up is when your outlook started shifting
Just when a shift requires valued time

You need to write this down

No amount of sound could make us fade the way you're fading now
When will you fade out