The Waking Hours

I search the missing link
That interlinks the tattered ends of a chain undone
I watch the faceless shades passing by in lethargic state
Dreaming of something to occur.

I walk through canyons of concrete where the poet gets lost
And a walking eye weeps, where no visionary dares to reside
And I sense Sisyphus climbing the hill with panting steps
For this sad time weighs his run.

In every waking hour
In any kind of golden light
In every moment of conception
In every hour you try to feel.

Always lies a sense of change.

I feel the sense of change as Sisyphus clutches at life
But the lifeless shades of monotony obscure his brightest day
Is all that's left a plain choise, to last or to fall
On the edge of collective drab?

Must we find fortune in constant revolt?

In every waking hour
In any kind of golden light
In every moment of conception
In every hour you try to awake.