Lyrics
Intro
Verse 1
In dim-lit workshop, tired tools, though barely alive, spin. (spin)
Even (the) most humble of well-worn screwdrivers (cyclical motif) at rest, edges softened by time’s spirals - handles weary with memories etched in walnut-brown in stalwart witness, countless insertions, twists, and (in turn) turns.
Chorus
Weary workshops habitated by habituative tools and similar belongings,
Air redolent with scents of metal's well-oiled formings, formations of longings.
Meanwhile other aspects of his mind fashions brief escapes along sinuous roads, (via)
Machines well-contrived to bear (newtonian) forces, dynamical loads.
Verse 2
We a trace of contours, an unseen sculptor's touch,
Considerations as friends, full-driven shared solace, each threaded shaft’s spiral embrace.
Yet front-from-back, or back from front , predictably perfectly indistinguishable, (PTSD Barnum)
For screwdrivers have not such orientations, yet proceed (nonetheless) apace.
Bridge
In the sensuous twilight, he follows such ways,
Treed corridors of memory, of subconscious desires.
Reflects upon the fate of the conjoined spinning system, earth and moon, (Contemplations Cosmic.)
Like screwdriver, all progresses through twists, too, to, in-turn, have arrived all too soon.
Chorus
Weary workshops habitated by habituative tools and similar belongings,
Air redolent with scents of metal's well-oiled formings, formations of longings.
Meanwhile other aspects of his mind fashions brief escapes along sinuous roads, (via)
Machines well-contrived to bear (newtonian) forces, dynamical loads.
Universe (cos-playing as a universe) trembles with anticipation,
Twisting to leaning-in to listen.
Outro
The screwdriver spins, a compass at hand,
The door swings wide - a starlit expanse.
He moves there-through, so inviting an unknown,
For in such milieu - well-worn (weary) souls, hope yet flickers to life, ever-fresh anew.
A universe (cos-playing as The One-&-Only Universe) trembles with anticipation,
Twisting to lean-in to incline to listen.
Outro
Screwdriver spins, a compass at hand,
Door swings wide - starlit expanse.
Moves he thus there-through, so inviting a well-known unknown,
For in such milieu - well-worn (weary) souls, hope yet flickers alive, to life ever-fresh anew. (Clue: Higher Dimensional Renew)
