The man who’s knows he’s dying is often filled with rage.
The man who knows he’s dying, expires in a cage.
He wades through the darkness searching for a fortress in the night..
He values distant memories, and worries for his plight..
The strange glow in the sky seldom brings him solace,
He is burdened the heartache
Stuck by the ambivalence
Succumbing to the notion of pain..
The man who’s knows he’s dying keep staring into corners
Filled with rage and torture..
Memories quaint and morbid..
The feeling of the pain..
Wincing at its name.
Immersed with rage and scorn..
Yearning to be born..
The man who knows he’s dying is often in a state
Where silence is not just golden but often a friendly mate..
Thoughtfulness and wholesomeness, kindness and its friends..
What’s the point of trying when you’re almost at your end..
The man who knows he’s dying will ignore most of his calls..
He will simply pretend they’re calling just to count his falls..
But they’re keeping track, that he knows is true..
The man who knows he’s dying cannot feel too blue..
Suddenly, the perils of the future become apparent.
Marching down the aisles of the school and college.
The grade school has no boundary, but the high school has pain.
The college has promise but the reality has no gain.
The music rolls on. Slower.
Triumphant none the less.
Chills running down the spines of parents in their seats and in their heavens and hells.
MORE.
Here they come.
Students and gang members and drunks and drug addicts.
Ready to march into the uncertainties of life. More and more.
MORE come down.
More music rolls.
They take their seats.
Surrounded by God and Satan all on one chair.
Chills moving through the bodies of those even without feelings.
A hush comes over the crowd….
Crack open a cold one. Light up a hot one.
The music says the days are numbered
The time is over.
It keeps playing. Rewind. Fast Forward, it doesn’t leave your head.
Blood flowing, grandmothers growing. All in the night. All at the drop of a hat.
The bottle has gone empty. The blunt get more blunted. The police are almost there.
The battles that raged were won by no one and fought by everyone. We are lost.
We lost.
They lost us, now we can’t even find a war to fight.
No one wants to fight a war that is un-winnable..
Un-winnable when you shine your light.
The man who knows he’s dying figures it’s just a random thing..
The brain misfiring, the emotions stalling..
To a past he clings.
But the march goes on. The beat continues. More and more walk down that aisle for their fateful visit with the hand of time. It gets no easier, does it? IT gets only more painful.
The hand extended, the face stiff in stone.
The music greets them like a violent storm in the night.
THE STORM FRONT RAGES..
THERE IS NO PEACE…
THE MAN WHO KNOWS HE’S DYING
SEES ALL BREATH FAST CEASE..
They need to listen but they dread to hear it. The beat marches on with their feet. Platform and leather soled, their hats and tassels turn. They’re finished.
On with life! On with death!
On with hate! And on with crystal meth. It doesn’t get any better, does it? Civil marches and freedoms goodbye. Holy alliances out the window.
Fear and loathing sense their home. Something has gotten into our blood. We are bloodless?
The music rolls on. Coming to a conclusion.; Wind blows and doors slam.
What the hell are we even doing this for?
We’re dreaming the impossible, nightmare visions of reality in our lives.
All this and the march keeps marching, the beat keeps beating.
All this in a midsummer night’s dream…
But here’s a little secret for those who didn’t know, you’re the man who’s dying …
And it’s almost time to go..
