When the story is and endless cycle
and the surrounding world will shift,
glowing and dulling, turning like wheels
you are told you have been granted a gift.

The gift of intellect, of class, of charm
of magic, and wonder
and an insatiable desire to please,
but soon, your mind they will begin to plunder
and tear it apart with ease.

You open the gates, I know you will,
as many have made that mistake as well.
At first it is harmless, their poking and prodding,
however only time can tell.

Happiness will come and you'll dance like you're weightless
while singing as you never have before.
Not once will you realize you're changing,
you can't seem to see anymore.
Your entire life they'll work on rearranging.

Raised upon tradition, and repetition:
"the cycle is what is right."
Their words you believe wholeheartedly,
but take a moment now, its no longer just black or white.

The world is consumed in gray, uncertainty.
What is right, what is left,
wondering if you ever even knew.
Still so ignorant to all of their theft.
Quickly they leave you horribly askew.

Sightless, and now, your body is numb.
Along the way, you presume, something may have gone wrong.
Clattering to the floor in the midst of your dance
though no one will realize that you've even been halted

nothing is left, not even a glow.
Your turning wheels are beginning to slow.

When the story is an endless cycle
and the surrounding world will shift,
crumbling, falling, crashing around you
You had been told you were granted a gift.