Driving My Car Towards The End

Choose one of the two songs to play while reading this scribbling.

Inside the glass cage on wheels with sore windows,
Empowered by the winter’s coldness,
The vast drowning blocks
Of a rotten humanity drift along.
Where you can smell the gore of a petrified city
That lost it’s virginity
A long time ago.
With in the middle
A boulevard headed towards
The door of the escapism
Which I’m picturing inside that frame
I once got from you.

I hear you sing:
“This is the end!
Of our elaborate plans, the end!”
That’s when I scream back:
“I’m driving my car on Geneva Road!”

Wandering where this callout might take me,
My mind yells at me.
Trying to make me understand
I should keep pushing that desperate throttle
Towards the 150km/h,

But then the unnoticed voice centered in my heart wispers to me,
Saying that I should leave a trail behind.
Existing out of the endangered winged bugs inside me.

They wave at me,
While the maker left them for dead.
Nevertheless they are satisfied of their completion.
They took us to the end of the road and back.
They showed us a wonderful fraction
Of the view we had in front of us.

Let our white crow,
That stands for the door to satisfaction,
Look back in happiness
Towards the black forest.

Our realistic view on the inferno Where we were born as victors.
The enclavement where the bird looked down on us with pride,
And saw us as one.
The place that eventually got us trapped
Inside our own disgust,
And made you
Turn away


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