With a rusty pick in hand,
I’m searching for the black.
To keep your rage fueled and fed,
But when I struck Gold,
I didn’t want you back.
But my lust for that metal,
Went further than I ever could.
It grasped that dry, eaten handle,
And sent me to a death trap.
With my lungs screaming more,
Contracting strings in my back,
A swinging axe in the dark,
I’m nothing but a snack.
But I want to breathe again,
Before these walls chew me in.
This is where you end,
This is where I begin.