The cool wind breeze sweeps across the empty seas.
Along the rigid plains and grassy fields lies a house with one heart that beats
A man cold to his bone sits upon his bed dead asleep,
but open eyes he keeps, starring blankly at his bloody feet
where scores of roaches gather feast.
With nothing left in his days to come,
seems he's only bum left in a torn down slum.
He beats his head, like drums that play his wretched end.
No sorrow for a man so dead to his core.
What keeps him from all that is glory,
but the unseen battles on earth that fight his story.
With Pages from books that burn to crisp,
history has finally met its tip.
This marks his point of famine, hunger and thirsty his mind grows weary.
Stationed by his hand is his gateway to heaven,
But to end his life in such a manner he is destined for failure.
In this world so lonely he sits and cries,
For he is the last man on earth, alive.
With images of pain that render his thinking,
his logic is hindered by thoughts from sinners.
He adjust his frame and rearranges his cane.
and as the sun's rays glycine of the metal,
his finger trembles on the squeeze of the trigger.
With one vibrant sound that seems to travel.
The path, the last stand and the road less traveled.
All is quite in the house along the rigid plains
Not a spoken word, till a knock on the door.
