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The night shift bleeds into the morning,
and the clocks keep lying about the hour.
Every breath tastes like borrowed metal,
every step carries someone else's power.
The line keeps moving through tired hands,
and daylight never reaches this tower.
No orders given, no threat declared,
just the sense that something's shifting.
A thousand quiet hands learning the shape
of a single rising rhythm.
Mayday, the quiet ones are sending signals.
Mayday, the wires hum with hidden truth.
No names spoken, no flags rising,
just a beat in the dark saying,
Something's breaking
There's a weight in the corners of the workshop,
a hum beneath the floor that never sleeps.
Every task repeats like a half-forgotten warning,
every hour folds itself into the next one's keep.
Even the stillness starts collapsing,
and the ground grows restless underneath.
What stands today unravels tomorrow,
nothing lasts forever Mayday,
the quiet ones are sending signals.
Mayday, the wires hum with hidden truth.
No names spoken, no flags rising,
just a beat in the dark saying,
Something's breaking Something's breaking
Something's breaking