i'm after the end of gameplay
i'm singing the praises of death
as though when it goes
as if everyone knows
that love is that all we'll have left.
but the thing that i'm feeling most cleanly
is that murder's a bloody affair
is that killing and closing
my eyes to the bleeding
leaves the shooting and eating to those holding weapons
as if equipment's distribution
went through nothing unfair.
it's not there, i swear
i sent gameplay's knife
i buried its blade in my grave.
and when i die i'll die clutching
its hilt in my hands, i swear.
"but it's my gameplay's knife too,
and we too have graves,
and we need our weapons,
and we're responsible too,
and who are you, killer,
to kill our gameplay?
who dares?
who kills?
who are you?"
i don't know
that weapon i made
not dull but sharp
i cut my ties
gameplay defining
who am i?
i'm after the end of gameplay
now and then what is it that i am?
who killed me?
in my small world the sun shines.