You stand by the grease and the steam.
Waking up from a dead-end dream.
Coffee stains on a paper sheet.
Treading lines on a concrete street.
Iron lines in a faded red.
Counting paths where the ghost has fled.
Rusting map in the winter haze.
Lost inside of a metal maze.
Fog is thick on the switching yard.
Keeping watch while the wind hits hard.
Yellow ink turns to charcoal grey.
Watching all of the routes decay.
Iron lines in a faded red.
Counting paths where the ghost has fled.
Rusting map in the winter haze.
Lost inside of a metal maze.
Salty air eats the copper wire.
Cold enough to kill any fire.
You trace circles from eighty-two.
Searching for a way to get through.
Iron lines in a faded red.
Counting paths where the ghost has fled.
Rusting map in the winter haze.
Lost inside of a metal maze.
Short on cash and the grill is hot.
Tying knots in a parking lot.
Steel is peeling from every rail.
Everything in the system is frail.
Burn the toast, wipe the counter clean.
Sifting through a forgotten scene.
Screeching brakes on a midnight bend.
Waiting for the long line to end.
Heavy boots on the gravel floor.
Knocking loud on a locked-up door.
Old ink bleeds on a salted page.
Trapped inside of a rusted cage.
Iron lines in a faded red.
Counting paths where the ghost has fled.
Rusting map in the winter haze.
Lost inside of a metal maze.
Check the clock, pour the brew.
Rusting map, just for you.
