Running is dying.
There is no middleground, there is no workaround,
There is only one lane circling this arena,
No greater battleground to ever run around,
No better master; oh gentle regina…
To love is to suffer.
Whether, slings and arrows, and a sea of troubles,
In the heart of the apocalypse, last man left standing,
It has no true reason yet it may never lie
Even in the beyond where everybody sleeps;
Memories are our voice.
My name is to be known from under the rubbles
Once else has closed the door and gone for the landing
Only to those ears shall descend to imply
Our smile and our tears lost in those bounds ans leaps.
The wind of change is warm.
What mystery remains to capture in thunder?
All may have been written and torn from these lone eyes
Yet, what is this ocean that within may still rise?
Maybe such in a song someone shall remember.
In all that can be said and surely in all that is, there be so little of what could.