It alway's starts with an ending.
A death. An explosion. A whimper.
Sending those into the sense of Impending
doom, as the fear of the future looms.
Descending further from understanding
We unravel as we are tangling
Up in the spinning world- to fast
to to just stay standing. We run
Knowing that it ended as it begun.
Handling our own- Two hands, one gun.

You see I'd rather bite the bullet.
than loose it or fire blindly. Aiming
neither at the mother or the egg- but the pullet.  
Standing behind me is my shadow-
He holds the gun steady- his aim narrows
And foolish he fires inside me.  
He's devilish in nature
But his intentions are pure and holy.
A strikingly dark creature
Who insists the world persists slowly.

He told me we all run fast when we're scared.
It's those who can keep the pace,
Even when the are not dared, that deserve honour,
recognition and maybe even fame.
But it' those same people who- when it ends-
Will take the blame.