Eyes cast down, but light creeps in.
Maybe, it is the end.
And I don't have to be the bad thing anymore.
And the force blocking me, is just an absence of resistance,
Of strife.
Maybe this is air in my lungs,
And hot blood rushing through me,
And I don't have to write about carnage,
Or mourning.
Maybe this is where the flowers grow,
And that the sun is beckoning them to look up,
And it's calling my name too.
