The living are bound to meet the dead
Isn't that a thread?
The dead are bound to stumble upon the living
Could be from bleeding or just from fleeing
Death is always hiding in that dark corner
But we still consider it as a foreigner
Red , we call it the color of death
Just because blood is on the same bed
Though the circulation of blood
Is what determines if you're cold
Or still on hold
Death is taking over the World
Could be with a war
Or just by watching from afar
Nowadays blood is shed
In ways that remind you of a charade
Death is Real
Could the living be dead?
Could they become like clay?
Living in a play