I step to the sounding metronome
Though it all seems to be off beat
I walk in search of a tempo
The drum lines seem all asleep
In question, all looking for answers
When to the tone there’s none
The preachers you once looked up to
All of them seem to be gone
As age comes our truth takes a shape
Then past truths slid under the hand
Time passes like a magic trick
Though leaving not a shred of evidence
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