Twenty two years
No fun, no revelry, no fame
Twenty two, nine years past thirteen
No more hope
No more dreams

Like the match brightly lit
Illuminating the darkened corner of the room
Slowly fading as its snuffed out
As the flame meets with the end of its stick

And so it is that that which is by my own guilt and pain
For the you can’t change the past but strive for a better tomorrow
Yet the future is all to much the same.

Nothing more now for all that’s left is time
Watching left hand move forward
As the days of my future
Slowly fall by the wayside

Its pain of the morrow
The feeling that persists
The edge that tears the hole
The demise of any hope thats left.