A poem, of which I ought to say
as a spirit withers away
and silently, the tides will rise
yet someday, maybe there will be a way
a dream, yet where am I
enclosed, a box made of my mind
a sweet serenade from an outside lie
a feeling unreconciled, a lie
A façade, and we are but a truth
so are we but lamentations of the end
a creeper, weeping through the end
and secretly, the dreams are dead
unbent through the end
in the beginning, there might be a place
a home, maybe a hibernation corner
a refuge, from the refuse of the end
and all our dreams are dead
as we march towards the end
A rapier, yet the rocks are tactile
but my mind is fragile, but really just agile
a thousand words, and none makes sense
that is why the lives are far more dense
a crater, just another crater of life
but whoever shall shine, a pleasure on the line
and a path, no, many paths to the end
a brilliant light, but why is it still night
At sundown, maybe some things will change
will the dust be swept, a lonely throne
as I greyly walk towards the end
a dull cold penetrates my run-down sweater
but will there be a truth, waiting in the sky
or just a path, a grey path of lies
a day talker, or maybe I'm to tend
the eternal grey walker to the end
And the Gods will witness
my story till the very end
