Telling our story
Everything's running through my head
dreams of future, dreams of past
(an echo inside and a silent that follows)
tells me that this subsistence won't last.
The stories moves on and the pages are written
our history's folded with lenient care
(it all happens fast and despite my consent)
it's all here; revealed and displayed and shared.
The last of my thoughts goes to those who suffer
a much bigger time than I've ever had
(my whimpering brain is aching and cluttered)
thinking 'bout all the good and bad.