Another Writer

When everything is spriralling, And all the birds stop what they sing, And mountains fall as if slumbering, I remember comforts from the sweet of spring. And the air it clings like a parasite, What's done wrong can't be made right, I guess I will have lost this fight, Even in death I won't forget this night. So we carry on and die et cetera, One can't escape the phantasmagoria, When all the filth begins to bubble up, Sway with the sounds of their bodies breaking up! Oh the possibilities are limitless, The pain comes and goes so effortless, Still lying on the floor hardening, Motionless, There's no more fear, The nothing's merciless. Then suddenly everything gets brighter, And all the shadows become lighter, My chest starts pulling all the tighter, Thought, Here is gone, Another writer.