In my dreams, I always hide and I shut
Them doors tight
Because it feels like I might die in the
Next fortnight.

These apocalyptic thoughts don't
Strike me as a trend.
I feel grief during rest, contemplating
How it ends.

Not complex as the monsters or the
Boogeyman in closets.
But as simple as rusty water dripping
From the faucet.

It's the everyday things that seem to
Cause the most pain.
It's a concept: You can slaughter or
You can be slain.

Danger drifts through the air as
Polluted molecules.
So fear clings to my flesh, rooted in
My follicles.

See, the deadline on life has no real
Estimation.
So every street, every pavement feels
Like my final destination.