Slow down, it's all going too fast

This comfort, this harmony

Not meant to last.

No permanence whilst days

They keep dropping out

Lying in the barren wastes, the sun shouts.

　

Beads of sweat forming

Eyes rising out of perpetual hell

Into the technicolour morning.

　

Lizards and newts crawl beside

My shaken form

As I lie still in the dust.

Standing up on the parched rock face

Drowning in my own sweat

Reel of yesterday plays wearily in my head

Hours of sickness, fear, metal, lead

Decadence, the feeling of the dead.

　

Lost in the urban highways

And now cast out in sweltering exile

It would not be a crime

To wait for you, whilst sitting here

In the shade of the insurmountable peaks.

　

But now the imaginary sea washes in

Static, and all breaks up

Waiting is the TV's shallow weakness.

Was the war won?

Flickering remembrances only

This waiting game; wash, rinse, repeat

Already dead

Trapped in the toxic heat.