sorrow fills my being
it feels so emptying
words feel funny, like an inside joke
and i stand around silly, trying not to mope
about the people i left behind,
the words forgotten, trying to cope
with all the visible seriousness in an act that must be taken, i float aimlessly
my hands grasping around the line
of a firmly tied rope
rhymes are silly, words are silly
nothing makes sense anymore
why bother with a sense of structure?
what it makes for a fitting end
will never be able to replicate the magic of a beginning
and the brilliant birth of an idea
that all stems from me, my thinking
died that very night, when i lost hope
when the song of rhythm was stolen from me
when my spirit faded away, into the world.
there is, there was nothing.
my existence, my birth is an endless cycle,
of misery, i turn about waiting for the end of this tragedy
what comes first, the idea, the thought, chicken, or-
the egg's yolk?