Poets Of The Fall

If this machine doesn’t stop
What will you do if it never goes out,
Never goes out of season?
It never stops as it turns…
There ain’t no passion, yet it burns,
Introducing my prison.
Losing myself in this place…
Soon I’m gone without a trace,
Freed with that final incision.
Look, my heart, it’s a bird;
It needs to sing and to be heard
Not this clockwork precision.
And The Machine grows idiotic;
Who’s gonna be it’s ingenious critic?
Everybody loves the perfect solution,
To beat the odds
Against the poorest possible substitution.
What you see is never what you’re gonna get…
Everybody’s playing Revolution Roulette.
Leaves you no arguments to trade;
You can try the key or you can wait,
But the lock will not open.