Days Poem by Brandon Butler

In a sense I write for nothing.
I'm really not doing this to tell you anything.
Telling you of the times we once laid in bed
Thinking of the end as morbid thoughts spread.
The tip of the end as morbid thoughts run,
lost as this mess, with oils and Opeth.
The stress spread east to west.
Hells nest webbed east to west.
That reasons as told not known by image.
To tell of such fun, they're lives become vivid.
Livid for the lost of the days.
The we once laid in bed for Days.