Sitting on a cliff,
the wind pushed him towards the edge.
Wounds he self inflicted,
on his arms and hands.

Soon he stood and then,
he let himself go.
He fell down and down,
to the ocean below.

What does it mean?
The life he lives.
It has him wondering,
what he's worth.
Is there worth,
in the time he's spent?
Or is he just the living dead.

When he crashed into the waves,
they tossed him up and down.
But he was not shaken,
he just kept trying to drown.

It wasn't till,
he saw a beach,
when he began to swim,
to loving peace.

He lived love,
and he lost.
Had he gone,
far enough?
Is there no,
turning back?
He's living death.

When he reached the shore of hymns,
night had fallen.
So he praised the moon,
guided by it's light,
he survived,
he's alive.

There is life,
and there's death.
There's an in between,
in which some of us live.
Those few of us,
lost in our heads,
we are the living dead.