Is it just I who muses late?
Into the veil of the night?
The laconicism is crisp of darkness
Black and cold, menace foretold?
Am I the only one
In the whole of humanity?
Who cannot cease to wonder of
The thoughts of worthlessness
That my every trivial thought
Is a waste of lives that fought
To come into the world
To breathe and dance and rot,
In the deathly tempo of time
Reminder of lives gone by
In philosophical demise
My trouble helps not anything...
Still I lie here, heaving through,
I cannot finish this song for you.
That would be misleading, to falsify
That my life showed an inkling of purpose—
Of anymore than just a cry.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
Is it just I who muses late?
Into the veil of the night?
The laconicism is crisp of darkness
Black and cold, menace foretold?
Am I the only one
In the whole of humanity?
Who cannot cease to wonder of
The thoughts of worthlessness
That my every trivial thought
Is a waste of lives that fought
To come into the world
To breathe and dance and rot,
In the deathly tempo of time
Reminder of lives gone by
In philosophical demise
My trouble helps not anything...
Still I lie here, heaving through,
I cannot finish this song for you.
That would be misleading, to falsify
That my life showed an inkling of purpose—
Of anymore than just a cry.
