There is dust under these feet,
As the things I once knew, shed,
And murmur the sounds of movement,
When I put my right iamb forward,
To step on the back of decay,

But the screams of this foot,
No longer drum,
(ba-DUM, ba-DUM)
And become, quite muffled...

Is this where Emptiness stays?
The attic gallery is dying,
Drying, in his presence,
As the people below, fall silent
When they no longer hear Time,
With polished shoes,
Walking over the floor,

Pendulums are for dead people,
Who read pages meters long,
And travel, noiselessly,
Into books I will never be.