Not the most cheerful of pieces, but perhaps it may speak to you.
Oh what glorious wasteland
Have you gone to, my dear love?
In all my plans, hopes, and septic visions did
I ever concoct a fate such as yours.
Not ours to walk a path together
Not ours to be hatred and resentment
Not ours to be unmet potential
Before we could begin, you passed beneath me.
It is your death. Your decay
Death to your meaning
Death to your image before me
Death to your journey.
You are dead as you walk
Each stride phantom in design
And as the poisoned spirits
You know not of your demise.
Your willing participation in one man’s deceit
Has left your with your throat cut
You babble endlessly in panic
But the blood has drowned your words.
Opportunism is a knotted fist
Gripping a malicious blade
Eviscerating and cold
It will always find its mark.
Doomed to haunt the material world
Such are your dreams and passions.