I'm a stormy landslide
And you're an earthquake
A disheveling tide
Tide that caresses me
While I subside
Subside to heathens
The heathens whose embers forever collide
Collide in the arms of your feigned stride.
.
.
.
Mehek

They call us when things are bad.
When no one else can help.
When all their ways have failed.
When life is over.

They release us.
When war is inevitable.
When the enemy was won.
When all is lost.

They force us to help.
When they can't help themselves.  
When bad does more than good.
When plans fall to the ground.

They call us the bad guys.
Well we are bad.
But not evil.
We have honour among thief's.

Who are we?
The last option.
The one who are thrown under the bus.
The Suicide Squad.

It is life that is shooting at me from the underground,
the souls begging for forgiveness
all comas exposed
until they haunt you
burn you out alive
in a ring of fire
in a countless sky
such breathless world we know,
we don't know about.