It happens. It begins - a side-effect of simple sins.
And on it goes, up sorrows hill, through fields of plagues that plague us still. Just as we rose, see how we fall, feel how our hearts don’t beat at all. An aftertaste of stolen youth, pierced with lies and lustful tooth.
And so we slipped, and now we lay, in horrors heap, in hell's dismay. Abandoned on a bitter whim, our end seems close to our begin. A life sewn tight - strangled and blessed - with threads of post-trau-matic-stress.
But does it end, or is it just…infinite, immediate us - stranded here in hopes disgust.