I carry the feet under my legs
Or am I hanging from the ground
And when I make a sound
It sounds like me
I found a picture of the man
And everyone calls it a mirror
But if it could be any clearer
I would see myself inside
And I can't hide, not in this clutter
Among these thoughts that stutter
Into disorder
Because I'm getting older
What of the passenger
The one along but not around
The backseat driver, the innocent
That one that's not content
I crave the ignorance
The childhood pondering of certainty
The blissful lack of knowledge
And the finite days
There are no goals to those
That wander in the dark
Because their aim is stark
And what's of the end if not
Another ride away from you