I offer you twenty seven moments.
Each day's brick placed idly beside the next.
The clock strikes twelve, and I know it is time.
With each bell's pang, the club draws to my side.
I offer this home one final journey.
At its expiration I shall descend.
That is all my soul has left to offer.
I pray the silver lining finds me well.
Or we find our end on childhood's moon.

Sweet little sunshine, carry me to my grave.
I pray to you now, and ask for release.
I beg to you now and ask for some peace.

I wonder when the demons fall from sight.
I wish it idly, and tear at my veins.
There is nothing left but skin and a soul.
All the good has gone and rotted away.

Slowly resurrect the fossilized eyes.
Work in the cold, grey, concrete asylum.
We pass in pairs of twenty and seven.
Stroke the blood, dust the ash, spark up the muse.
The rot runs to the core, no man remains.

Scar tissue and cough syrup numb the brain.
A silken, rope-filled snake bruises the pipe.
Midnight arrives. Mama, can you hear the moon?
The stars pass through, purifying the gloom.
Embrace the tumult, greet the curtain call.

The dust mites settle, the clouds become grey.
We spread our wings, cry out, and fade away.

I taste a touch of sand within the wind.
Its grit lying against my brittle skin.
A dusted void enriching from within.

I can touch the future, you can hold the past.
The serpent idly pressed upon our beating hearts.
I whisper your name, inside this hall of mirrors.

Entropy's release, I take a breath of the sea.
The sunrise on the cusp of callous disbelief.
And in that moment, the snuffed ember grows dim.

Wherever you are.
Whatever you are doing.
Please, just be okay.

Bitter though the pain may bite.
The devil's chord shan't strike true.
As long as there's me and you.

Find your peace at rock bottom.
Embrace the moments so blue.
One day you'll know what to do.

Stand up, walk away, and sing
While you bid your love adieu.
Then, you shall be happy too.

At nineteen I sat in a stark white room.
Made my home among fellow lunatics.
I carved in the pages of a notebook.
I offered up the luckiest number.
I took hold of seven and made it mine.
Seven years I offered to find my peace.
Seven cycles around a dying star.
If my soul still felt bitter and alone,
then fate would grace my own hands once again.
Finally, the blood would pour into porcelain.

But despite it all, fear strikes at my heart.
I have hit twenty-six, I feel weary.
So, I beg to the void one final time.
I am weak, I am alone, I am scared.
I softly scream, please hear this cry for help.
I may be selfish, I may be unkind,
but please, show me the light I cannot find.