At What Point
At what point will the past bury us,
Taking control of the bus,
So, life rushes past us.
A flickering picture show that bruises our ego,
With guilt having nowhere to go,
And the last bus a distant glow.
Hate resurfacing for us to pass on,
Showing us a two-dimensional view of those long gone,
With character assassination heaped on.
At what point will we run out of air,
Having gone too deep to hear,
From the present up there.
Our future now clear,
No machine yet capable of bringing us up for air,
And those who we left behind see their future elsewhere.
This message I hope,
Will stop you from being a dope,
And give you time to shorten your rope.
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