There’s a bloated corpse at the foot of my bed,
It is the very corpse of Will,
It sits there rotting, with dead dark eyes,
Staring at me wherever I lie.
And where I lie is not far off,
For Will’s dead you see,
For every action there is no drive,
No reason for the decisions to which I arrive.
I’m decomposing, with rigor mortis setting in,
I’m not that far behind Will, you see,
I’d wish I could get my Will back,
Before I too am a corpse, with eyes so black.
But Will must feed off of drive,
And mine starved to death.
With flame and spark simply gone,
What can one do with every day drawn?