The walls are closing in
Moving like the water on which you walk
Visible air
Creeping like the runner
Gaining on me
He s gaining all the time
Never slowing for the traffic signs
There s a gun to my back
Testing my strengths
Pummeling my words
With the salt of life
The air
It takes a stolen shape
And casts a shadow on your mind
Darker than you thought
It s not my imagination
There s a gun at my back
Walking
On a quarter inch sidewalk
Surrounded by the oil
That lubricates your thoughts
Dark and polluted
Smelling of dead souls
That withered away long ago
It s not my imagination
There s a gun at my back