From Diamonds, To Dust

The trees are rotting and I feel they might be dying.
The smell is of the dying summer air; a dry misgiving; a dead, rotten hell.
If this is the End, then just end it fast
Because Times like this should never last.

A guillotine swing to sing our last Hoorah.
Yet hope won’t fade, nor should it,
As darkness brings doom, we will all hang on, but we shouldn’t.

What brings us to be so delusional from the Truth?
Hope must be that facade, poisoning our brain dust on through.
And honestly, you’ll probably find me on the couch with a whiskey in hand,
As the fiery skies light up before our last final stand.

Hoorah! Hoorah! We shall shout before we explode:
From diamonds, all men must turn to dust…
And be swept by the wind,
To better pastors we go,
Wherever that may be.