A tiny, tiny, tiny poem about the gang being over. If I did own, Season Three would be airing right now.
Inside, I felt death.
The demise of our attachment.
It would never be the same,
No, for that was to our minds,
But I could not help having my eyes go banal,
And my heart to ruins.
We would lead habitual lives,
Is that what we want?
To have no threats?
In a way, it was always electrifying,
Having deaths linger above our skulls.
A part of me wants to be original,
The other craves for secrecy.
It had become a daily lifestyle,
School, then daunting traps.
In the end, maybe it would be okay.
We would still have the memories,
To think about day by day.
I will long for the ensnares sometimes,
But when you think about it,
There are no endings.
Only new beginnings.