Down where the damp concrete smells like old ink
Below where the city lights blink and they sink
A gold plated circle on velvet and red
Counting the minutes while the building is dead
He sits on a shelf by the ledger and glue
Watching the spiders spin webs that are new
Steel hands moving slow in a circular race
Staring at nothing with a frozen gold face
He is the brass eye in the deep
Counting the secrets that the archives keep
Ticking away while the heavy doors lock
Steady and cold as a midnight clock
A moth hits the bulb with a flicker and snap
The basement is quiet like a velvet lined trap
He marks every second of the long lonely haul
Writing the hours on a grey cinder wall
He is the brass eye in the deep
Counting the secrets that the archives keep
Ticking away while the heavy doors lock
Steady and cold as a midnight clock
No one comes down to the cellar today
The rust on the hinges is turning to grey
He waits for a hand or a click of a spring
To hear how a winding gold melody rings
The ink on the parchment is starting to bleed
A story of ghosts that he doesn't need to read
He counts every heartbeat of the humming machine
The cleanest old witness that the basement has seen
The light from the hallway is a thin yellow line
He keeps the rhythm and he keeps the design
A gear and a sprocket in a rhythmic machine
Slicing the darkness like a razor edge keen
He is the brass eye in the deep
Counting the secrets that the archives keep
Ticking away while the heavy doors lock
Steady and cold as a midnight clock
Just keep it ticking. Ticking away.
The brass eye sees it all.
