In the fields of corn, you'll find my skull in thorns,
Torn, stretched and disfigured by selfish men.
I can't talk to you, bones can't,
But then you can read my pen.
These will be the impressions in clay,
The ones in sand will scatter.
The synaptic connections
Of an erstwhile mad-hatter.
Otherwise
Nothing that's yours will outlive you,
That's a fantasy we endear.
In the universe where "isn't" isn't anymore,
There are things unknowable and unclear.
Most of us are worth shit anyways,
What legacy? Just a putrefying corpse vain.
All the scribbles get glued to shit,
And flushed down time's drain.
All that talk of rebirth, deferred bullshit,
They're just blowing air up your holes.
There's plenty of time wasting shit like that,
Stay away from patronizing self-righteous assholes.
The triumphs die with us,
Our sorrowful stories are all too dead.
Or once the mind that thinks those thoughts,
Isn't in that head.
Our insignificant existence is easily erased,
Forgotten what went into that person.
Nothing survives the churn,
Not the planet, not even the sun.
And when I'm no more there's no more than,
A man with ordinary dreams who didn't make it.
Who, no matter what he did,
Everything turned into shit.
It's all a temporary ride,
Enjoy and suffer, it's worth the pain.
It will not repeat ever again,
That much is certain.
I won't be born again,
I won't live again,
I won't die again.
It's all very straight forward and plain.
Every philosophy is false centered around us,
Since we don't matter to the universe.
A gradient entropy exploiting,
Written in atomic verse.
No reason or rhyme, don't waste your time,
Just be who you are.
An animal like the rest of them,
That lives a life that can't go far.
