Who is this man, this awkward man,
who is just like me, just not like me,
trusts not like me, knows not what to be,
has his eyes open but can't quite see
over the dashboard of his misfortune, which, at any rate
is clearly unfortunate, clearly a bad deal to
seal your tomorrows in such un-pretty packaging.
Those negative thoughts will sting
like frost bites your toes,
those thoughts are your foes
who will grind you down with swift blows
to your self that envisions your dreams.
He is not what he seems.
It seems he sought immortality
but, instead, gained thoughts of his mortality.
His minds eye felt his last breath and
shortly thereafter mourned his own death.
In the wake of his mind, i take what i find,
what's left behind?
I leave him so soon, for this man who will die,
before he will live,
will live all his years with nothing to give.