Smoking at the Gas Pump

There is a shadow upon the wall
Can it be mine? No, it is far too tall
Here in the corner I feel so small
So near to the shadow upon the wall

Here in this small town made of clay
We wait for the rain to wash our world away
We built up our houses, a safe place to stay
To find comfort and leisure and the weight of the waves

Here in my head there's a thought slowly spinning
The dark, woolen web that I walk is now thinning
To the look of a hundred teeth slyly grinning
As I round the next lap of this race I'm not winning

Here in the dark, there's a soft, hollow laughter
That chips and that clips at all dreams I chase after
That uses no words yet still names itself master
My hands, strung like puppets, bid nigh new disaster

There is a shadow upon the wall
It used to be mine; now it's twenty feet tall
It scrapes at the ceiling, for the wall is too small
And soon it may take us, this clay house and all