This is goodbye. I’ve weathered one too many storms.
This is goodbye. I could write my short biography in tomes.
I’ve been tested, I’ve been tried and I’ve seen that I’m for turning.
I’ve lived fast-paced, I’ve almost died of regrets, seen memories burning.
So farewell to life, farewell to the strife on who decides on my legacy.
That it should come to this, the torch held high: that of lunacy.
This is goodbye. No country to be buried in as my own.
This is goodbye. On the ocean’s waves, I shall be the foam.
A field full of poppies, yet no one remembers the blood.
Excuse me, it’s soppy, but I shall go now with the flood.
It is self-derision which I have mastered above all else.
It is self-demolition upon which the world now dwells.
As I say my goodbyes, anguish brandishes its sword.
And to all who would listen, this is my final word.