Hope is a poisonous thing.
If one should die, wish he falls into death without such a malicious taste in his mouth. Let him see sweet winds of life. Let him breathe the smell of liberty into his collapsed lungs, so that such a painful thought as hope may not reside in him upon his final breath.

The clock weeps for it's tired hands,
Still spinning and counting just the same.
I look back on the agony
Time never healed
Life was always a game.