Decade and a half ago, The world still fresh and new, Good and kind. Air - not what we choked on Your ray of light flickered In my careless recollection Of course, that was once upon a time.
When volumes of infusion is the blood in your veins, And scenes change day by day, curtains drawn, You are at the end of the line, spent, and you're Holding up yours hands in the air, no defiance. There is sadness in your eyes, even when you smile "The war is not won." I said.
Bitter taste of medicine Lingers like diseases on your tongue. "To be or not to be" Is a statement, not A question, not a Matter of choice.
Excruciation, or maybe hell, in the purest form Perpetual realization of pain Of the crystal mind in storm, Peeling the psyche of it, driving it off to the edge. But do people still go to hell When their lives are sheer suffering Through and through?