Amongst the living,
There are throngs of walking dead
Attempting to wake.

Alive enough to move, but
Not enough to know they’re not.

The students disperse
From long halls lined with classrooms,
Like deer from the corn.

Each fearful of what’s to come,
The mystery of the night.

The clouds, high above
The cold, dark, midnight skyline,
Are full of questions.

Quickly falling into me,
The conundrum of the age.

Landing on my ears,
Caught like rain in a tin roof
On the mountain’s edge.

Je vois le réponse juste,
Mais je ne la comprends pas.

I must understand,
I must know what I cannot,
My Etruscan scrolls.

All the last literature,
Now just embers in the pit.

All of the paintings,
Thrown off their walls to the floor,
Destroyed by soil.

All of their men, deceased.
All of their boys are just boys.

However, in time,
The boys will grow into men
As the sun smolders.

Spinning madly in its place,
Until that final moment.

When time stops ticking
And the cosmos wont expand,
A last kiss goodbye.

Calm and collected, we stand
Staring into the barrel.

Calm and collected,
I must be kidding myself.
Is this collected?

Already segregated
As if the show has ended.

As if we’ve already
Been scorched by solar winds,
Left for dead by friends.