Colours, all fading
Dreams, all dead
Or dying
Lives, all forsaken to life
Hand in hand,
We march
To meet our aimless destiny,
And our barren illusions.

Hearts racing,
Blood pumping,
Eyes gleaming,
We know we're dead
But, still,
We march.

Let fly the gates of hell,
For we come
As one,
Crippled, blind,
Deaf and mute
To our bright,
And glorious death.

We know it waits for us,
But yet,
So knowing,
We pick up breath
And run to you.
Take us, Death,
Make us great
So we may be forgotten sooner
So our page might be written better
So that, in death, we will live.
We march.

I never fail to revel
in beauty,
in naked skies
tattered with cloudy lies,
or fresh bloom
laying pink and still in the afternoon.
And then I almost always
never fail to ask
why?
when?
how?
or who?
Why is it that it's
us
who get to witness this
wonder of a world
and not another,
hellish and forsaken
doom?
But, then again
why not?

It vexes me to bits,
it does,
how, in its minute perfection,
it made room for us
only to sweep us back
one day
into the void
called history
and so
into the ignorance
of doom.

Then, why bother
with a rain of
hollow questions
when now is so fleeting
and forver is doom?
Why dance with
the gods
in sorrow
if the skin is aching
for the chill
and the waking
of rains in sweet June?
Why not live
a wet and blind
existence
with every wake of the moon?

But,
then again,
why not?