I'm clinging to a strand of hair, ontop the back of a beast It ravenously needs to eat the world, devour it as a feast Beneath its feet it tramples in haste Food spoiled below it, rotted by waste While my neighbors sit, va-cant, empty, content Or hard at work, suffering, to pay the rent The price of blood, the loss of youth, and always of life And thoughts imagined, when seperate from strife So at home on eaches personal hair They live tiny lives, of nothing aware So rooted in there, unable to care And so, the world runs out beast starves the ride ends... ...now what will it feel like, there at the end? Just came up with this now. Getting it down as I write it, then I'll edit it later.
