The tunnel stretches, a vein of red, Where the living envy the silent dead. The pulse is heavy, a sickening beat, In the subterranean dark and the city heat. The camera spins as the world goes grey, Tracking the moments we threw away. The salt air bites at the open wound, To the rhythm of the waves, we are bound. A thousand years in the shadow cast, We are the echoes of the thunderous past. The fire burns in the hollow glade, Before the steel and the heavy blade. The concrete vibrates, a low-frequency hum, As the shadows of the underpass become The walls that close in, slick with grime, The sudden suspension of hope and time. Ten minutes of tearing, a jagged sound, As the spirit is crushed into the ground. The red light flickers on the ravaged skin, Where the cycle of trauma and hate begin. Because time destroys all things. It tears the feathers from our wings. The future is written in a pool of ink, Dragging us down before we can blink. The joy of the morning is a hollow lie, Underneath a cold and a brutal sky. Descending the stairs to the pulse of the machine, To the deepest circle, the most obscene. The Rectum is sweltering, a strobe-lit grave, Where the animal instinct is all that we save. The vengeance is blind, the vengeance is cold, As the horror of the basement starts to unfold. The fire extinguisher, a heavy weight of lead, Brought down with a fury on the wrong man's head. The skull gives way with a sickening crack, There is no road and no turning back. The face is a ruin, a pulp of red spray, As the lights of the club start to flicker away. One strike for the anger, one strike for the shame, Until there is nothing left of the name. The spiral turns, the nausea grows, How the story ends, everybody knows. First the blood, then the quiet light, Then the memory of a summer night. We walk backwards into the flame, Leaving behind a shattered name. Because time destroys all things. It tears the feathers from our wings. The future is written in a pool of ink, Dragging us down before we can blink. The joy of the morning is a hollow lie, Underneath a cold and a brutal sky. The strobe light flashes, the screen goes white. Lost in the static of a long-gone night. The grass is green for a moment more, Before the slamming of the final door. It cannot be undone. The dark has won.
