So this is what it has come to
So this is what is built
After all these hours working away
After all these hours of no play
We are the bleeding masses of habitual monotony
We are the unsatisfied smiling spinning labatomies
Drifting towards a sea which resembles nothing of home
Drifting towards a graveyard filled with unmet ancestors bones
Us together hands with our palms apart with a sun black with no light
Us together standing back to back for our eyes hang from the blight
Great hordes of dripping wet soldiers from wars unknown
Great generals swing their wands as the dead rise from the foam
My story is unfinished and the man which holds the pen is absent
My story is an eclipse of ignorance caked in an ash that is heaven sent
Lost forlorn faking contention that could be read by the youngest angel
Lost in time born in time awaiting a release blessed by a soft rusty bugle
And now as the wind moves dead leaves among the standing trees
And now as I see that time stands still for no man not even me
I sit as I watch the rippling waves clap as my comrades venture off
I sit as I hear the silence of my breathe drift onto a rocking splintered dock