An abstraction of your fears, conjured progressively through years, walks beside you every day, may cause some to halt, then pray; it's a demon that's passed on, through generations come and gone, as fixed and certain as the tide, nowhere for you to run, or hide; is there a game that you can play, that extends your time and stay, with instructions and some rules, that don't leave you, as the fool; can the clock that's counting down, tick half as fast before you frown, and gaze with stoical askance, as you begin, your macabre dance.
Signed, sealed and delivered as many times as you may care for, but the curse of existence is never knowing how the story really ends, or why it was started in the first instance.
Signed, sealed and delivered as many times as you may care for, but the curse of existence is never knowing how the story really ends, or why it was started in the first instance.