Dreams of death in captivity,
only trying to eat through my solidarity,
in truth our life's move no where,
only the waves in our brain,
but we do proceed forward into this never ending pit of hate and ask the
question why?

But we never receive an answer,
our pain is like a sign of life,
but pain is only a nerve,
and a nerve that can be broken,
hatred is a true emotion,
something that can never be erased,
only locked away in the depths of the mind,
and then our life's only replaced by something that was never meant to
be.

Why do we lust?

Why do we grieve?

These aren't emotions of a true personality,
only the false aria of hope that blossoms before we die,
if you take a look inside everyone they will always have a since of
themselves if faced with the cold grasp of death,
we will always choose life at-least in the end,
but by then it could be too late.

Now watching you hold yourself to the seat,
you don't feel so immortal anymore,
that blood that runs in your veins could be spilled on the floor,
and the life you hold so dear grow cold,
why must we all run in fear,
in the face of death you must stand strong,
to show no fear, is to hold victory,
in those weak hands,
to embrace that hell in your mind,
you will walk faceless to the endless bounds of the earth.

And yet even after this you are weak,
and whimper like a small child,
I can't figure the mind of ignorance,
but it runs strong within you,
this blackness yielding a path of hatred for me,
walking beside you all the way observing,
and never uttering a word,
unholy visions of impurity,
only rotting your mind from the inside.

Your end comes,
on a pale horse,
riding with great swiftness,
your death never remembered,
only life a vision faded into the past,
now a broken tomb,
and a broken man,
why did you turn and try to run again.
 
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