Getting close is the best I've done,
and even then, it was still a distant run,

through the showers and floor being undone,
in the midst of shadows and a mist that spoke of fun,

they all say there's nothing there,
nothing to hold on to,
for that I am sorry,
but my apology is about being me,

the mean of hope and a fate disagreeing,
with instruments strumming,
for a thing unclear to be,
what's staring back at both of us,
I'll just smile,

for what is left, just further into this mess,
the same to drink,
and a wish from the same genie,

hoping for more coping,
not believing in the dystopian,
while living it in a chorus of chords now broken,

making music out of the screech,
twiddling fingers as if I'm playing,
but I'm laying dead on the stage,

and, at this point, it's worth it,
even underneath not a single petal,
to be seen.