i
"It's over, isn't it?" You ask,
Unsure of what to do. Bask
In the glory of forgetting a
Fight, fulfilling what I would say,
Night coming to take me away,
For I cannot stay. Breakaway, nay,
My mind will not sway. Play
For the day I will say
And pray that I must get
Away. Away. Away. And never ask
In what way I did bask.

ii
But the words are cut short.

 iii
And someone else will die tonight,
This is simply the human plight.
We do not control, or know,
How we'll react to Death's scythe.*
Running up from behind, poked sides?
Charging headlong, blind, and teeth bright?
Or a chase, running shorts chafing?
But I have not finished wri-

iv
The fever is the cure, no?

v
I do not suffer, or
Make others suffer, yet
I am told that I am
Heartless, lack empathy,
Am mean. My rage speaks truth,
And the truth can help you.

vi
It's all in your head, right?