End hangs,
dangling ominously,
way back in the rear-view
and far ahead of me.
Reminding, threatening,
a promise and a warning for eternity.
Just born to die, die to live again
in a cycle endlessly;
its up to me to fill the room between the walls,
and here again I feel only full of empty.
"Let us see if you make it this ride,
if you can find your way down the road,"
the frigid whisper blows,
"just keep in mind I can take you at any time."
Lost in the webs long woven again,
drug down in the swamp within,
where hopes become hollow and dreams evaporate,
questions crumble and the silence of exhaustion penetrates
and the void cannot be filled with mere sleep.
Thought I had come so far,
but the illusion always ends the same way.
If only I could die with my blood still pumping.
If only amnesia truly brought a clean slate.
But we are always left with ourselves,
our habits, our well-worn paths of least resistance,
with our thresholds, however far we've pushed them
and could break a record with every breath
or dance to a skipping one forever.
And what I'd do to stretch beyond déjà vu,
to break out of the slumber in which I've settled,
but the mould I'm in is like iron,
and though the struggle has made me feel alive,
the unavoidable rediscovery of the futility of my efforts
brings me down deeper every time.
dangling ominously,
way back in the rear-view
and far ahead of me.
Reminding, threatening,
a promise and a warning for eternity.
Just born to die, die to live again
in a cycle endlessly;
its up to me to fill the room between the walls,
and here again I feel only full of empty.
"Let us see if you make it this ride,
if you can find your way down the road,"
the frigid whisper blows,
"just keep in mind I can take you at any time."
Lost in the webs long woven again,
drug down in the swamp within,
where hopes become hollow and dreams evaporate,
questions crumble and the silence of exhaustion penetrates
and the void cannot be filled with mere sleep.
Thought I had come so far,
but the illusion always ends the same way.
If only I could die with my blood still pumping.
If only amnesia truly brought a clean slate.
But we are always left with ourselves,
our habits, our well-worn paths of least resistance,
with our thresholds, however far we've pushed them
and could break a record with every breath
or dance to a skipping one forever.
And what I'd do to stretch beyond déjà vu,
to break out of the slumber in which I've settled,
but the mould I'm in is like iron,
and though the struggle has made me feel alive,
the unavoidable rediscovery of the futility of my efforts
brings me down deeper every time.
