I thought of love.
I think of times,
and all the things
that used to be.

Like people
I used to see,
and faces
I used to love.

Used to love.
Am I used to love?
I am the pain.
Yes, I do believe...

I must have loved.

Torn pages.
Worn refrain.
Numbered.
Named.

I must be special,
but all efforts
seem so lame.

Is this the lesson
kept from our brain?
We just see
we're all unique.

The scythe
clears all
the same.

I tend to wonder
what will occur.
I feel the thunder
talk to me.

For I believe
a part of me,
and all of you

are gonna share
the same
damn view.