Artifact of the Unknown Days

I am a brief and passing thing The piece of you I keep inside of me is tearing me apart I feel like a doll soaked in blood and trapped in shade We always will stay in lugubrious nihilism That's really all we can do at this twisted point But we can form wings of optimistic,nihilistic joys Epicurean skies We throw our hands from our bodies,into the air To try to reach the skies And dance around bleeding out And now I lose weeks And days And I sit in a gunned thorn bush Preparing to be shipped Away by others When you've been alone for long enough The trees speak the dead language of others