We’re products of our own past.
The present is in treatment.
We keep on living, hoping for a better future,
a one that is fading, evaporating, and will never last.
We are children being raised by children,
in pen skirts and striped black suits.
We love the notion of house make believe,
Oh, wait, someone doesn’t like it?
Well, then, we must prosecute.
Draining everything with our self-destructive ways.
We tranquilize our memories to justify what we have made astray.
Where everything is exactly the same,
a makeshift to a fall prelude.
And when it finally happens,
the excuse is ready, we’re still in treatment, it was all just an étude.
For the real thing is not now,
it’s after when it’s all gone.
We call it the after life.
It holds a dream of us as a better spawn.