Past

This time it’s the winter of death

The moment we all dread

When you run out of breath

This time you are dead

There’s no mask on its ugly face

It is death

It has no pace

It takes no breath

I try to come across as dead

But really it’s all in the head

The brain is a beautiful thing

There is no brain fit for a king

It’s all just a game of ball

We play until everyone will fall

Into the grass

But in the end

We are all in the past