Have you heard the myth of men
That predict their own death like a score?
How could one depict such a prophecy from a world so scarred?
To think, they picked the one of one million ways to disappear.
That's something else
Somehow this thought was hanging above my head.
For weeks, plus days when I wasn't really me.
Infatuated with a dark, looming end.
I feared company.
I hear sirens all night for miles and I'm sure we can't die from nothing.
I can't be afraid of subtleties out of my control.
It's not saying goodbye that makes me toss and turn,
It's the thought that I won't.
There's only so much room in our graves,
Only so much that we can take with us.
How deep is the plan to take me under after wronging another?
Swinging machines brush my heavy shoulders as they carve into mother.
And now a thought is hanging above my head.
I will never know.
(There's an illness about. Bodies all give out.)
I'm not afraid to go, but I fear to leave on a bad note.
Our souls are tortured, dreaming morbid dreams 'til they turn on themselves.
I got here ok for someone who was headed somewhere else.
This must mean something.
This all must mean something.
I don't need it all mapped out,
But I do wish that I knew where not to dwell.
