Kettle's boiling,
Milk's spoiling,
Toast's burning,
Voices raising,
Door's slamming,
Sun's rising,
Car's failing
People running,
Shops opening,
Lighter's lighting,
Cigarette's smoking,
Started coughing,
The end's nearing,
Vision darkening,
Pupils dilating,
Brain's starving.

Casket dropping,
Widow's mourning.
Apologising.
Regretting.
Grieving.
Weeping.
Last breakfast of the morning,
Toast burning,
Wife shouting,
Not knowing,
He's slowly dying.

The rain beats down on his helmet,
Craters turned into pools of brown and burgundy.
Distant artillery shrieks,
A barbaric war song.
Questions buzz around his mind,
Why is he there,
When does it end,
Where are the birds.
No creatures roam no-mans land,
Feared by the cries of young heroes.

Why do the young fight battles,
Instigated by the old,
While the bodies grow cold,
Their lives less precious than gold,
For those who are big and bold,
Behind their desks, in the mansions of old.

The mould grows freely on the wood,
That shelters the holy corpses that should,
Be remembered for the heroes they would,
Have been if only they weren't killed in cold blood.
Sing a song for the unsung heroes of war.

The rain beats down on his helmet,
Thunder crashes around him,
Disguising the gunshot.

Only the dead see the end of war.

I hate life,
But death fascinates me.
The end of such a complex thing,
Surely more beautiful than any springtime rose in the Autumn.

Many see it as a thing of despair, upsetting,
Uncaring and depressing.
But not me, I find it fascinating,
Interesting.

Surely the ultimate closure of a beautiful thing of life,
Is akin to the changing of the leaves, at that precious time of year.
Death isn't a bad thing, its the end of all ends.
The ultimate end game.

I find life so boring,
Wake up, do this, do that, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.

Death only comes once, for a split
second.
But it last a lifetime,
Always looming,
Waiting for the perfect autumn, to turn your leaves a golden brown,
And return you to the Earth.

The world would be a better place without me
here, polluting the atmosphere,
de-constructing the carefully, tediously sculpted landscape,
and building monuments to a capitalist god.

The galaxy would be a better place without us
trying to figure out the enigma beset before us,
trying to answer the unanswerable.

The universe would be better off if Humans were extinct,
without us killing ourselves over land that we're killing,
without us infecting everything we touch with the plague of humanity.

Without us, there would be harmony,
bliss,
universal peace.
Without us, everything would be perfect.

As it should be.

Welcome to life,
The biggest journey you'll take.
You started alone,
You may end alone.
But that's life.

You won't always be happy,
You may never find love.
You might find it boring,
You'll probably think it's pointless.
But that's life.

That's not to say you'll never feel glad,
Perhaps you'll fall truly and hopelessly in love.
You'll probably feel something like love a lot,
But it's not.
Because that's life.

You won't always be alone though,
Someone will take part of the journey with you.
They won't be there for all of it,
And they might not make it easy.
But that's life.

It sounds gloomy,
It sounds scary.
It sounds positively awful.
But it's great,
Because that's life.

The world is full of beauty,
It's full of ugliness.
It's full of saints,
And it's full of monsters.
But that's life.

You'll learn a lot from your journey,
And perhaps you'll pass on your wisdom.
One day it will all end,
In an instant.
But that's life - well, the end of it.

The world’s gone mad,
Only one can save the insanity.
He feels the world’s sickness flow through him,
Like a virus invading his body.
He strives for sanity.
Cities will become dust,
After the cure.
Towns will become haunted,
After the cure.
Shadows will be scorched into the floor,
After the cure.
Puddles of red,
Puddles of grey,
Puddles of plastic of the children’s play things.
There will be little survival,
Surviving on little,
The floral patterns of their shirts etched into their skin.
The voices of their former society echo in their ears.
Charred ancestors,
Instant fossils.
Welcome to a future museum piece, of a savage era.
After the cure.
After the one.
After the saviour.
After the hero.
After the bomb,
The world will have gone M.A.D.
Mutually Assured Destruction.

“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” – Oppenheimer