A wind chime old and rusting on your grandmother’s porch The song not as clear as it once was The new tune so softly eerie that to a passerby it seems just fine
Waking up five minutes before your alarm Sitting on your bed, wide awake Just watching the time tick pass, minutes of your life Until you’re past the time to go
In the idle of traffic, you become aware Of all the movement around you Babies whine, horns honk, people sing Yet here you are What are you doing? Are you doing anything at all?
Your bed is a coffin, dusty from the days you don’t open it at all The sunlight is foreign to your eyes People prance around you, basking in its glory They don’t even blink at your inability to see the light.
In the cemetery, Gravestones surround you, Bodies of the lost and souls of the ****** You can’t help but resonate somewhere deep inside your soul. Not that you wish to be dead, no. Just that it seems you already are.