We breathe out, but we can never catch our breath again as we're, always chasing what has been prescribed by the wise and in the know. They know. That we can't hold out, but weaken in our ways and understate what was once a call to arms, and a stand for what is right.
I want the peace.
Please, we can't fight. We cannot fight. We can't afford to fight ourselves.
But I'm forced. My hand is forced to carry on its benighted ways.
Then I react, as if it's all. As if it's all so new to me.
Though it's been the only constant thing that's remained.
I try to severe, but it can't be cut. So it just lingers.
Fear breeds defeat and fear has an appetite for reality, until truth and death become one all according to what we choose to see.
Blind eyes and unwilling hands, the best made plans will surely fail, so we end up inventing alternate endings, although it was never what we wanted.
I do not want this. I don't want this.
We can't afford to fight ourselves on this.
Revive, again what was once so dear to us, but then collapse.
Survive, and then turn to what habits we learn in the dark- fear breeds fear.
Alive, until we call it false in our hearts. Surrender.
But weaken, in our ways and understate what was once a call to arms.
I want the peace. In me.