The kind, like for a telephone,
From which many extension come from,
In somebody's home.
That I can sit there day and night and no one notice,
How, through me, their world rapidly flies,
Slowly, slowly I change with no avoidance,
Of the reality that I'll eventually die,
At which moment my death will not be obvious,
As I'll let out no screams or final farewell.
Only by a search for the termination of movement,
Will they ever be able to tell.
And it will be alright,
Once they bring me back to life,
And I am once again a conduit for their life,
I will, at the same time, have a meaning to mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment