put on your metal pants.
the ones in the closet, behind the orange shirt.
put them on, and come on.
we are going to the sun
we'll fly in our fuel efficient space shuttle to our fiery demise, knowing full well that only d e a t h and destruction awaits us at our grisly destination. Yet, onward we'll soar, onward we will plummet.
sip your lemonade and make polite conversation as the sweat begins to trickle down our brows, and the parched feeling penetrates through our tongues, jaws and down our throats. Comment on the weather before your heart has a chance to stop beating; tell me everything was always okay moments before i meet the steam. the burning gas of goodbye.
"How are you?" I ask, wanting... well, not wanting a truthful answer (a dutiful friend I am, for showing my undivided support)
"Good" You answer, a liar you've been. (but i don't encourage pearls before swine, as I offered little more than pig-like consideration)
Neither of us are "good"
Unless you count the end of misery something to be gained.
and the end of misery it will be; only at the hands.. the rays of the time-table master.
so, come with me, won't you?
it's just like any other day in the lives of those who don't live, those zombie children, those lifeless wastes of space...
as we travel to the sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment