Time is the only opportunity in which we tend to forfeit,

leaving the primitive skeleton structure of who we once were.

Altered by an invisible matter unspoken,

but an entire generation of degenerates.

Breathing in and receiving it.

Leaving the true essence of us, empty.

Walking on the thinnest wire of the bunch,

only because the rush tends to be insufficient

due to a lack of oxygen.


I move about within deadly syllables,

counting down to destruction.


With out control you will be herded along

with the rest of the sheep,

lead by a Shepard of disaster.

The master.

That is after we go faster,

through environments of plaster,

devised by the spell caster.