I can see my own demise, Like a mystic's mind's eye through a crystal ball. Ever blackening, As the ashy winds of dread Rock our bones like withered trees. A soul like dry thistles By obliviously bare feet And it was crushed to dust Like the very soil it came from.
Hope? Hope is for the weak, Hope is for the blind. Those with clear eyes Can see this fog will not lift. We will all have our eyesight fail, There will be no end to the ashen mists. Hope is child's play. We live, we die. But in the meantime we suffer, We lose our spirit and we lose our breath, And when, inevitably, the time comes, We will lose the will for our hearts to pump. We will wish that each breath is our last. And we will wish we'd Never hoped for anything better.